Of a Thursday
by sydedalus
Summary: House meets blood clot. A fill in for the infarction set in that time period and based on Three Stories. HouseWilson strong friendship. Hurt comfort, angst, drama. WIP. Please R & R.
1. The Ninth Hole

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon--not going anywhere with it), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** "Three Stories"  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Notes:** This fic is in its infancy obviously and its direction/detail may depend largely on next week's season finale. I don't plan to focus too much on Stacy. I'm expecting my usual emphasis on House/Wilson interaction but that, of course, will depend on what next week does or does not tell us.

The original character in this chapter will most likely not return (no one likes a playah hatah). This won't be an OC fic. :) Thanks to Aud for tossing the thinking ball with me on the episode, and I apologize if my golf terminology is off. It's been a good while since I set foot on the links. Also, spelling, typos, grammar--sorry. I'll already be late for work as it is. ;)

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**Prologue: The Ninth Hole**

He had been lining up his shot when it happened. No, wait. He'd been lining up his shot when he felt it start. Thinking back now with the cold, undiluted gaze of hindsight, he could remember that it had started when he'd been lining up his shot. He'd felt it. And then, in the backswing, it had struck.

A sudden rush of pain, horrible, but looking back on it now, it had felt like nothing compared with what was to come.

He must have cried out. He remembered watching the ball dink along a short ways from the tee. He had managed to hit it, but only barely before he dropped the club and fell forward. Nate had caught him.

"House, what—!"

He hadn't blacked out. He remembered that he hadn't actually blacked out. Nate Tandell, a former colleague in neurology, had caught him before he fell over and stained his ridiculous plaid pants on the fresh-cut grass. They'd been playing a short round of nine in preparation for a full eighteen that weekend against Wilson and that other guy—what was his name?—Roger something from cardiac. Roger was married to one of James' cousins—one of his _real_ cousins—and he was an all-right guy but not the first person House would've chosen to be exiled on a deserted island with out of the regular foursome. He wouldn't have chosen Nate either. It just so happened that James as on-call and as good as James was, House had to play against him or it would be an unfair match. Nate and Roger were both only so-so when it came to golf.

But Nate was the one who saw it happen first. Wilson said he was there. Sure. He was. Before and after and part of the during. But not when it started.

Nate had eased him on to the tee, the newly-shorn grass. He could still feel it beneath his hands even now: bleeding chlorophyll from having been mown that morning. Nate's hands on him, then Nate hovering around him, breath smelling of sardines from lunch.

"What is it?"

"My leg," he'd said, or something like it. "I don't know—" Pain cut him off.

"Stay here, I'll get help."

"No," he got out. "It's okay." And he meant it. It did feel better. The shock of pain had knocked him over—that was all. He picked up the 3-wood and used it to get to his knees.

Nate stood by helplessly; he only knew House so well and in truth, he thought House was an arrogant bastard. He tolerated House because House had such an impeccable reputation and because he was angling to co-author an article with him. He knew the man was a genius, but, well, geniuses could be real pricks. He'd thought House had meant it—that something _was_ wrong—but this was House and he'd seen the man do less to get out of obligations before. But if House didn't want to play the last hole—and it was only a par four—then why didn't he fake a page or something less dramatic? Nate saw pain in his eyes. This was real.

But by the time he'd made that connection, House was getting to his feet and testing out his right leg.

Nate regarded him curiously.

"It's okay," House breathed, "I must have pulled something. But I think I'm done for the day." The pain had become manageable. He didn't like people seeing him weak, especially his colleagues, so he tried to walk steadily and resisted the urge to use the wood for support as he made his way to the cart. "The last hole is yours. Sorry. I'll ice it tonight and we'll cream 'em on Saturday."

Nate's face betrayed disgust for a moment before he nodded, collected House's tee, and went to pick up the ball. House always had treated him little better than a caddy and he felt anger as he walked toward the small white ball in the afternoon sunlight.

House was pale and sweaty, his head tilted back, and both hands unconsciously gripping his right quad when Nate returned.

"Want me to call Stacy?" he asked as he returned his club to the bag and added House's tee and ball to his own supply. If he was going to be made to fetch them, he sure as hell wasn't going to return them.

"Nah," House said. "She's in the middle of a big case right now." He paused. "But could you drop me off at the hospital?"

"It's that bad?" Nate asked skeptically as he gassed the golf cart and steered it onto the path toward the clubhouse. He knew House could play people too and he hated being played. That's why he was divorced. "If it's just a pulled muscle…"

"I don't know," House said, trying not to let fear creep into his voice. His brain had been racing, spinning possible diagnoses as soon as he was in the cart. He'd had plenty of pulled muscles in his time and this wasn't what it felt like. But still. It _was _possible to pull a muscle in the backswing and James had been deriding him for the way he twisted his right foot when he pulled the club back for years, and he wasolder now, pushing forty. But that twinge he'd felt right before when he was lining up the shot—that twinge made him think it might be something else. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the present. "It really hurts."

Nate looked away so House wouldn't see the annoyance on his face. What a prima donna—as though he didn't already get enough attention and wasn't dating the unbelievably foxy Stacy from legal. Nate didn't understand what she saw in a bastard like House, not when he was around: a respected neurologist on the tenure-track who was neither crazy nor a workaholic. He resented House's arm candy like he resented the free reign House had over the hospital, taking only the cases he wanted to take, showing up only when he wanted to show up, and that boob McAllister overlooked it. So what if House was there late most days, if he sometimes juggled more cases than most doctors would even consider taking; he was just a showboat and that entitled him to nothing, least of all a free pass to skip out on what had been a solid practice round. Nate already had fifty bucks riding on the outcome of this match and if they lost to Wilson and that jackass from cardiac, he'd demand they switch partners. Wilson was better than House any day of the week and not just because of his golf game.

They were at the clubhouse.

"I'll be in the car," House said, carefully getting out of the cart and testing the weight he could put in his right side.

Nate grunted a reply and went in to return the cart. Now he'd have to lug both bags to the car and hope House didn't get a bug up his ass and take off and maroon him. He wouldn't put it past the man. That smug grin, the way he always got what he wanted and things always worked out for him. He thought he could walk all over everybody all the time. Nate gritted his teeth as he voided his score card. House _would_ spoil the first afternoon he'd gotten off in a month. He didn't notice on the ride in or in the air conditioning of the clubhouse that House had never let go of the 3-wood.

House found that he had to rely on it more and more as he crossed the parking lot in his spikes, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch on the blacktop. The sun was baking. _Never get sick in July_, he thought. He didn't relish the thought of being in the incapable, wet-eared green hands of an intern fresh out of school with more book smarts than experience. He'd probably draw a kid who was on his twenty-fourth hour of a thirty-six hour shift. But to be perfectly honest, he was in too much pain to care.

He unlocked his car from the passenger's side and sank into the seat, club clenched in his hand. He tried to breathe against the pain and tossed the club into the backseat. Part of his brain recoiled at the thought of Tandell driving his car—his brand new, expensive car with the V-8 that scorched his blood on a zero to sixty run and hugged turns like they were born to cling to its tires and finely-tuned suspension. The leather interior was making sweat stick to his back and the pain in his leg wasn't lessening like it should if it was muscular.

_What_ was wrong with him?

He reached over and turned the key in the ignition, blasting the air conditioning and hitting the power locks so Tandell wouldn't bitch about having to carry his bag _and_ open the trunk himself.

Trying to ignore the pain, he bent over and untied his spikes, slipping them off. Maybe Tandell wasn't an idiot and would hand him his shoes from the trunk. And he'd better not be such an idiot that he'd try to drive with his own spikes on. Not on House's new accelerator he wasn't.

He slid the seat back as he felt the trunk being opened. He was taller than Tandell. The car bounced when Tandell put the two golf bags in and the extra weight that followed told him Tandell was sitting on his bumper while he took his spikes off. Bastard.

Nate finished tying his shoes and stood. He hesitated for half a second before he took House's shoes out of the trunk and slammed it shut. He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he opened the driver's side door to get in: House sprawled out, ashen, shaking, eyes closed, both hands on his right leg. Nate was beginning to think this wasn't a show, but he said nothing as he got in and adjusted the seat and mirrors to his height. The hospital was only ten minutes away. If something really was wrong…

The radio belted out 80's metal between them as they rode, neither saying a word. Nate was an adult contemporaries man and this crap House considered music was just more noise grating on his already irritated nerves.

House hadn't said anything and he didn't look any worse, so Nate by-passed the E.R. entrance and drove into the parking garage. Damn House and his good parking spot. He killed the engine and opened the door, not caring that House hadn't opened his eyes yet.

House instinctively held out his hand for the keys. The pain had nearly tripled during the ride but he didn't want Nate knowing that. The man drove like a sixteen year old who'd flunked driver's ed twice for running over too many cones and hitting the old woman with the baby carriage at the crosswalk so hard her cardboard head flew off. He was amazed that his car was still in one piece.

Nate dropped the keys into House's outstretched hand and popped the trunk to retrieve his bag and shoes. House had the car door open by then and was struggling to get out.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," House said. He had both legs flat on the parking garage floor and was resting a moment before he tried to stand. He looked at Tandell with his best 'I'm fine, kindly fuck off' face and said, "See you Saturday."

Tandell grunted and turned toward his car. A totally wasted afternoon. He'd better win that fifty bucks or House was going to owe him big time.

* * *

To be continued. 


	2. Steps

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** "Three Stories"  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.  
**Technical Note:** Re: dialogue. I left a line out because it seemed to be there more for dramatic effect than anything else ("Help me!"). Also, I changed the amount of Demerol House snatches because the student suggested it in the episode, not House himself, and that amount isn't on par with what they would've given him if he were really in that much pain.

So I was re-watching "Three Stories" today and heard a bit of genuine southern twang in Sela Ward's voice (the scene where she's talking to Cuddy about the third option was when it jumped out at me). She's from Mississippi, as I am, and she's totally my homegirl just for that, but a little deep south popping up on a show that's otherwise full-on New England stick-up-the-ass makes me smile. But holy crap is it hot down there. And I miss crawfish. Just to share… ;)

Thanks for the reviews, ya'll. :)

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**Chapter 1: Steps**

Gripping the top of the car door with his left hand for support, House stood carefully, most of his weight on his left leg. The pain lessened considerably and he breathed a relieved sigh. He stood still a moment to enjoy it: pain that had felt like someone was drilling a hole in his femur and had him clenching his teeth so tightly his jaw hurt had become a dull, throbbing ache. Maybe he was okay after all—he could catch up with Nate and make him a peace offering of beer and nachos.

But the change in pain when he'd stood wasn't consistent with a muscular injury, or at least none he could think of. Better get it checked out just to be safe.

He closed the door and locked the car, then tested out the pressure his leg would bear. Seemed okay. No significant change. He took a step forward. It hurt a little more, the ache punctuated with a quick dart of pain when he lifted his foot, but he could walk.

He limped slightly as he crossed the garage and entered the building. Ground floor. The E.R. and walk-in clinic were on the first floor. He glanced at the stairs leading up, remembering the spike that shot out when he lifted his leg, and went to the elevator instead.

E.R. or clinic? He'd been thinking E.R. on the ride over, pain shattering his consciousness, but now he felt better and if it was just a pulled muscle then he didn't need any labs or tests—maybe a few days' worth of some pain killers that were stronger than the OTCs available, but that was it—and getting in and out of the clinic was _much_ easier and faster than getting in and out of the E.R.

He'd wanted to get home early today. He had planned to go their apartment directly after golf, take a shower, and get started on dinner, since he actually had time to cook for once and he liked to cook. Salmon, he thought. Something they both liked. Stacy would be tired when she got home—she probably wouldn't get in until six-thirty or seven—and he wanted to have dinner almost ready by that time. Maybe some laundry done too. A good meal and a bottle of red wine were what she needed after a long day and he wanted to give them to her. He was expecting a movie on TV afterwards, then to give her a backrub and devote the rest of the evening to slow, passionate love-making. He'd just finished a case last week that had kept him at the hospital until nine or ten at night for a full week and she'd been so busy lately that they hadn't had time for anything more than a quick, tension-relieving fuck in the morning. They'd both been too tired for anything else. He loved showing her that he loved her and sex was his favorite way of doing that. He'd been looking forward to tonight all week.

It was 4:45 already. A clinic visit would take at least an hour. The timing annoyed him. Not only would he have snot-nosed punks who had no idea what they were doing poking at him, he also wouldn't be able to prepare for tonight like he wanted to. He could probably still have dinner ready on time but he'd have to skip the laundry. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

He was only a few steps from the clinic doors when he concluded that the clinic was the place to go. Ha. His feet had steered him in the right direction while he was busy thinking.

He filled out a form at the desk, forcing himself do it since his instinct was to go home and ice it now that he felt better. But the pain he'd felt in the car, the twinge right before it hit him on the tee, and the way it was starting to hurt more right now kept him writing his personal information down, then his allergies, medications, and the reason for his visit. 'Pain in right quadriceps' sprang to his mind but he wrote 'leg hurts' in the blank instead. Keep it simple. He gave the form to the nurse and asked about the wait. Twenty minutes. Not too long, good.

He sat down in the pre-formed plastic chair and gasped as the pain immediately changed, sharper, worse. He pressed his right hand against his thigh, fingers straining, knowing it wouldn't help but compelled by reflex to do it anyway. His heart started hammering and he squeezed his eyes shut, face contorted, panting. He knew he was over-reacting, that in some part of his subconscious mind, he was scared and this was only fear manifesting itself. The pain wasn't that bad, he told himself. Wasn't that bad. He could handle it. He tried to calm down, breathe in more slowly through his nose, slow his heart rate. He knew getting worked up would only compound the pain.

For a little while it worked.

It was bad, yeah, but he had control over it, he thought. It wasn't overwhelming him like it had earlier. He felt himself shaking and sweating anyway.

A few minutes passed of slow, deliberate breaths and he started getting his mental focus back. He began combing through muscle anatomy and physiology for the most likely candidate to be pulled by the motion of his golf swing. He came up with a few—none of them very good—and was starting to look around for a magazine when the pain suddenly worsened.

Bad. Very bad. Worse than earlier.

A sharp intake of breath and both hands on his thigh, twisting in the chair to protect the limb. Muscles didn't do this, he thought. They didn't behave like this. But he couldn't think of what did. The pain had gotten too bad.

He gave it a minute to see if it would let up. Tough it out, Greg, you can do this. It's just muscle strain. You can do this.

When it didn't get better, when he couldn't take it anymore, he called out.

"Nurse!"

She glanced at him from the desk. "Just a few more minutes, sir."

"No, I—" pain squeezed his voice, "aaggghhhh—I don't think I can wait."

She looked over the check-in sheet. "You'll get the next available room," she said, "try to relax."

In her experience, a patient totally freaked out in the waiting area about once every week and a half, and while she could tell from his face and the way he held himself that he was in pain, there was nothing she could do except try to keep him calm.

His heart was racing and his hands and face ached from strain.

"I can't—" he choked out, starting to feel dizzy, God this was bad, "I—need something now—," he said gulping in air, pain trying to smother the words in his throat, "—now. Now. I can't—aghh—wait."

She stood, ready to get one of the doctors if he passed out since he appeared to be heading in that direction.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give you anything," she said authoritatively, letting him know someone was in control. Half the time it was fear, not pain, that made a person hyperventilate like he was doing now. She glanced at the exam room doors, recalling which doctor was in with which patient and who would be the best to grab in case someone was needed.

"Just a few more minutes," she said soothingly. "Try to stay calm."

House couldn't take it—the pain was breaking him—and he shouted, "Get one of them out here _now_!" He set his teeth and growled, "I need something _now_." A pained cry escaped him.

One of the exam room doors opened and a doctor poked her head out.

"What's going on?" she asked, seeing House curled up in pain in the chair and a nurse looking anxiously at him.

"He's having severe pain," the nurse said.

"My leg," House squeezed out, "something's wrong with my leg."

It was abundantly clear to him now that this wasn't a muscle injury, but he couldn't think, couldn't come up with what it might be.

The doctor signaled to the nurse to clear out the room while she went over to House and put a hand on his shoulder. "Try to relax, sir. Where does it hurt?"

He shot her an annoyed glance and squeezed his thigh harder as if to say 'right here, you moron'.

"I need to get you into that room over there before I can do anything," she said calmly and evenly, just like she'd been taught, and gestured toward the room. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know," he said gasping, "I was fine earlier. Then when I sat down—" Pain choked him again and he groaned, unable to say anything else.

"Try to relax and stay calm," she said, looking him over for signs of trauma. "When did the pain start?"

"About an hour ago," he said, feeling himself relax a little now that he had simple questions to answer, now that someone else was working with him. It would be okay. It would be okay.

"What were you doing when it started?"

"Playing golf," he said, grip on his thigh loosening and his breathing slowing down.

"Have you had any pain anywhere else? In your back or groin?"

"No, nothing. Just this, just now," he said. This was taking too long—it hurt too much—and pain was rushing back in now that he'd let his guard down.

"Have you lifted anything heavy recently? Fallen or been in any kind of accident?"

Suddenly it was strangling him again and he couldn't speak or nod or do anything but shake and hold his leg.

"I need you to stay with me, sir," she said.

The nurse had returned with another nurse who was bigger than House.

"We need you to try to stand up now, okay?" the doctor said. "Mike is going to help you."

House said nothing, eyes shut and head down, but reached out with his left hand and let the burly nurse pull him up.

The doctor and the other nurse were crowded next to him as they got him across the waiting room and into the exam room.

The pain lessened again as he stood and walked and he felt his head clearing. When the doctor asked him to remove his pants, he did so with shaking fingers, glad he'd worn shoes he could slip out of easily today. Mike hovered behind him as the doctor closed the door.

"It's better when you stand up?" she asked observing him closely.

"I don't know," House breathed, holding on to the exam table as he stepped out of his pants. "It seems to be."

"Sit on the table for me, please," she said, looking his leg over for any bruises or other signs of injury.

He sat and the pain pinched him again but he tried to stay still as she tapped his knee.

Nothing.

Tap again.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

'Decreased reflexes in the patellar tendon' flashed across his brain but before he could do anything with that thought, pain hit him harder than it had yet and he yelped and tried to bend protectively over his leg.

_Not a pulled muscle not a pulled muscle not a pulled muscle_.

Mike's gigantic hands were on his shoulders to keep him from falling off the table. He was rubbing his leg—_why_ did it hurt, _why_?—and she tried to ask him something else that he couldn't process. He couldn't take it—the pain or her stupid questions.

"What the hell is wrong with me!" he shouted at her and rocked back until he hit the table and tried to curl up around his leg, unable to stop himself from screaming now. "Do something!"

"One hundred of Demerol," she quickly said to the nurse.

He nodded curtly and went through the cabinets for a syringe and the medicine.

"Wait," she said, "where's his chart? Dammit!"

She leaned in to House, who was writhing on the too-small table and said, "Sir! Sir!" trying to get his attention, "are you allergic to any medications? I need to know before I can give you anything."

But he couldn't speak, couldn't stop screaming and flailing.

The nurse had the medicine drawn and was waiting, watching the doctor for her signal as she tried to talk to House.

House opened his eyes and saw the nurse standing there with the syringe and automatically grabbed his arm with one hand and the syringe with the other and slammed it into his thigh, pushing the plunger as fast as it would go before either of them could stop him.

His body tensed, hand around the empty syringe still dug into his thigh, and he felt his leg burn with the drug.

Then the pain receded, slowly at first and then quickly.

He pulled the syringe out and dropped it, collapsing onto the table and gasping with relief. His breathing slowed and he stopped shaking and then the pain was only a memory.

"Thank you," he breathed. "I feel a lot better now."

His eyes slid closed—he was so tired after almost an hour of unrelenting pain.

"Call security," he heard the doctor say. "And check his records with the other hospitals."

He wanted to say something, to tell her that no, he wasn't a drug-seeker, but the Demerol was hitting his central nervous system hard and he could only breathe slowly in and out in and out.

He opened his eyes, feeling hazy and good, and saw the doctor glaring at him. He was right. She _was_ just a greenhorn fresh out of school. She looked so young…she should be in pigtails.

"I'm not—" he started to say, the drug and exhaustion stealing his wind momentarily, "I'm not trying to get high." He breathed in and laughed a little to himself: he _was_ high whether he wanted to be or not. "My leg. Something's wrong."

Her cheeks were red with anger and she'd forgotten about his lack of reflexes. What had they told her over and over in school? That drug addicts will do _anything_ to get a hit, take advantage of _anyone_, _any_ situation. She was so mad, at him for playing her and at herself for being so easily duped. He didn't look like a drug addict but she'd been warned over and over again that no one looked like a drug addict—you had to watch for their behavior instead.

She'd heard him yelling at the nurse in the waiting room for drugs. He only answered her questions until he was tired of putting up with them and he was all better when he had to walk to the room but then much worse as soon as she tried to examine him. She should have seen it coming. Second day on the job and she'd been conned already. Dammit. All she could do now was make a note on his chart and alert the other hospitals in the area. He thought he was so smart, getting her like that, but she knew he'd need another hit much sooner than he thought and he wouldn't be getting it from any hospital from here to Trenton. She glared at him again. She knew he was fine. Not a thing was wrong with him.

Watching her languidly from the table, House could tell she was furious at him and he knew exactly what she was thinking. He'd thought the same thing himself more times than he could remember and that was just this year. All patients lied. Whether it was deliberately or by omission didn't matter. It was still a lie. That meant he'd been lying just now? Eh. Whatever.

He lay there, feeling better, feeling sleepy. While he was concerned about his leg and about getting it properly checked out, he was so tired and so happy to be feeling better right now that he'd be content go home for the night, rest, and make an appointment with a real doctor tomorrow. Besides, he knew that the clinic was going to close soon and, more to the point, that this woman wasn't going to have a thing more to do with him. Which was fine. She didn't know what she was doing anyway.

Maybe it had been some bizarre fluke, that pain on the ninth tee, and it wouldn't come back. He could get it checked at his leisure. He hoped that was the case. His life was moving so fast right now and it was so good—perfect career, perfect girlfriend, perfect time to be living in—and he didn't want it to stop, not even for a second. And this, this lying on a table, totally fucked up after nearly passing out on a damned golf tee in front of a guy he hated and looking at a very pissed off young doctor who didn't know shit about shit, this was a definite pause. He'd feel sorry for himself if he wasn't so comfortable.

His thoughts had trailed off and begun lolling stupidly to the right with his head when the door opened and two security guards stepped in.

The doctor looked at them and back to him.

"Sir," she said, tightly controlled anger in her voice, "you're going to have to leave. This clinic is for patients only."

He wasn't bothered by the implication of her words. He didn't care. She turned and left the room. He was still pantless on the table and he didn't care about that either.

"Put your pants on and we'll escort you to the exit," one of the guards spat at him.

He looked at them in disgust and sat up, dizzy and tired, and stumbled off the table. As he retrieved his pants, he thought to himself about whether he should call Stacy to pick him up or wait a little while until he felt more clear-headed and drive home himself. Stacy was probably still at the courthouse wrapping things up with the prosecutor. Such demands were put on her when a case actually went to trial that he really didn't want to interrupt her. He hated being interrupted at work himself and he knew she wouldn't welcome an interruption when she was knee-deep in a complex case, but most of all, he didn't want to call her because he knew she'd come get him immediately, no questions asked. She'd be annoyed and she'd tease him all night about it, but he knew she wouldn't hesitate to get in her car and drive back here. So he would wait until he was okay to drive.

He thought about going up to his office but people would only try to bug him if he did. Mutt and Jeff wouldn't let him in the elevator anyway.

"Lead on, gentlemen," he said roguishly after stepping into his shoes and walked after them, feeling no pain.

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Next chapter? House goes home of course. :) 


	3. The Last Time

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** "Three Stories"  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews everyone! They make me write faster. :)

This chapter is all House/Stacy. I apologize to the Stacy-haters, but the point of this chapter is to show that House loved and trusted her wholeheartedly—otherwise, I don't think she'd have been his medical proxy or that he'd have allowed her to dress him down like she did ('it's just a damn leg'). I think they had it very good and that's one reason—probably the biggest reason—House is so broken right now. So, in terms of chapter goals, I want this one to convey how evenly matched they are. This is the last of the fluff (is this really fluff?), though, and Wilson will be making an appearance in person soon. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Last Time**

"Honey, I'm home!"

Okay, he didn't say it, but he had always wanted to. _Maybe some day_, he thought as he let himself in to the dark apartment.

He felt good as he put the salmon he'd bought for dinner in the refrigerator and the expensive bottle of Pinot Gris on the counter. He was tired from the ordeal and from making a stop for the fish and wine, and he was still a little buzzed from the Demerol, but he felt good overall as he went to the bedroom, trying to decide what to wear for later.

He had his shirt off and ready to throw onto the laundry pile when something in his brain clicked and he started stupidly at the clothes, trying to remember what was important about them. Was he supposed to do laundry today? Had she asked him to? Did he screw up? He grasped for the answer and came up with nothing. Then it came back to him: he had _wanted_ to do laundry, not she had asked him to. He was in the clear. Good. But it was past six and he didn't have time. Weird…he didn't usually forget things like that. Maybe he was more than a little buzzed, he mused as he stripped and got into the shower.

He decided on the blue shirt she liked so much and black trousers while he was drying off. Luckily, both were clean and ironed, which was a minor miracle given how busy they'd both been lately.

He found the bottle of cologne she'd given him for Christmas. It was her favorite but he felt it was too strong for everyday use—especially when he was more interested in repelling people than attracting them—so he only wore it for her. Or when he wanted sex, since it was the best guarantee of getting laid he'd found so far. Hmm…no time to shave the five o'clock shadow. But she didn't really mind a little stubble. Early on in their relationship, she'd confessed to carrying a torch for every scruffy male liberal arts professor she'd had in college and he'd happily dropped back into some of his more scruffy habits from his bachelor days, arriving home with rolled-up sleeves and skipping his morning shave from time to time. So he went straight to the cologne, dabbing it on slightly more liberally than he should have so she'd know he wanted her to notice it: it was meant to be both a gesture and an aphrodisiac.

He yawned as he put the bottle back on its shelf and rubbed his face tiredly. He hoped he'd be more awake once the Demerol wore off. Falling asleep early tonight wasn't part of his plan.

As he went to the kitchen and started getting pots and pans in order, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbow to achieve the appropriate scruff factor, he tried not to think of what might return in addition to wakefulness when the drug wore off. Fish, potatoes, asparagus, white wine for cooking the fish, a few other things. He got to work.

Half an hour later, dinner was simmering in the kitchen and he was on the couch with a hot water bottle on his leg and the national news on.

Clinton had gotten himself implicated in something again and as much as he liked to see any politician flounder, even Slick Willy whose eel-like ability to extricate himself from any situation House both admired and delighted in, he was so tired. He'd felt the drug gain on him the second he laid down, but it was more the bodily weariness of enduring pain that was trying to drag him into sleep than anything else. The drug only weakened his resolve and clouded his mind: not the best combination if he wanted things to play out like he'd planned tonight.

He was struggling against the pull of sleep when he heard the door open.

"I'm home," Stacy called from the small foyer.

He heard her putting her purse and briefcase down and he stood and stretched, feeling more awake now.

"Hey," he called back.

"Mmm," she said coming into the room, "smells good." She kissed him and followed him to the kitchen, taking in the sight of him. "You look good," she said appreciatively. "And you smell good too."

House was checking on the fish in the oven, but he could hear the playful suspicion in her voice and knew her left eyebrow was raised in question.

"What's the occasion?" she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. "You didn't get fired, did you?"

House snorted a laugh and closed the oven door.

"Yeah, McAllister's really gonna fire me. He'll give me the axe the second he admits to wearing a toupee and not a moment before that," he said with a grin, turning around to face her as she leaned against the counter. "No occasion," he said with a shrug. "Happy Thursday is all." He stepped closer. "You've been busy lately and I wanted to do something nice for you. Because I'm a nice guy."

She laughed and he pretended to be hurt.

"Oh, and there's one other reason," he said, rubbing his chin and knitting his eyebrows together, "hmmm…what could it be?...seems like I should know…I think it's important…it's on the tip of my tongue…if I could just—"

She reached out and tickled him before he could get any further.

He laughed, "Stop it!" and pushed her hands away, smiling. "Now I remember," he said half-serious, "I love you." He smacked his forehead and said with mock stupidity, "I _love _you, _that's_ it. I'm always forgetting that one."

She smiled broadly. "Since when do you use the 'l' word before nine p.m.?" she asked and tickled him again.

"Since when do you need a reason to—stop that!" he laughed and tried to shove her hands away, finally kissing her to make her stop.

"Next time just _ask_ for a kiss," he said smiling, arms around her. "I never should've told you I'm ticklish."

She smiled and gave him a knowing look that clinched his hopes for sex later.

_Yes!_ he thought as he turned back to the stove to check on another dish.

"How was work?" he asked.

"Okay," she said, watching him stir something, "the judge might declare a mistrial but it's still too early to tell." She paused, then said with annoyance, "Jack was a real pain in the ass today. He and Rick had a fight and he would _not_ stop sulking. The judge actually had to take him aside and talk to him. Can you imagine! It was so embarrassing."

"It's always Jack, Jack, Jack," House grumbled and tasted a sauce he was working on. He held the spoon out to her. "How's this?"

"Good," she said and nodded her approval.

He turned back around and checked on something else. She studied his posture, a sly smile on her face. When she didn't keep telling him about her day, he turned around again and she studied his face this time.

"What?" he said, confused and looked down at his shirt. "Did I get something on me?"

She stepped closer and put her hands on his shoulders, getting his attention.

"You're cute when you're jealous," she said and kissed his cheek, then stepped back to where she'd been. "And you know he's gay. We went to their anniversary party last month. You remember that crystal serving bowl you hated?"

"It was ugly," House pouted.

"It was tasteful and you know it," she said smiling.

When he didn't stop moping, her smile turned wicked.

"You _are_ cute when you're jealous," she said deviously, "but the real question is, are you jealous of him or me?"

"I resent your implication," he said, closing the distance between them and kissing her deeply, rubbing his hips against hers. He pulled back. "You _know_ I think Jack is hot."

She kissed him. "I'll throw you a coming out party at work," she said between kisses, "and you can ride off into the sunset together…bareback…I'll take Rick to Vegas and sell his kidneys…just don't forget…to send me a postcard."

"Stop talking," he said into her mouth.

Before it could get too serious, he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, arms around her. "Later," he said huskily. "Dinner's gonna burn."

She smiled, kissed him again quickly, and let him go.

"Go put on something more comfortable," he said and went back to dinner.

She nodded and went to change. While she was gone, he took the dishes that were ready off the stove.

"Salmon's got about five more minutes," he said when he heard her come back. He turned around. She'd freshened her make up and he smelled his favorite perfume, but she was still wearing the clothes she'd gone to work in.

"Stunning," he said and turned to pick up the Pinot Gris. "Wine?"

She took the bottle from him, gave him an impressed look when she saw its vintage, and got two glasses out.

"How was golf?" she said. "Or do I want to ask that question."

His lip tugged upward a little. "I'm going to report Nate for an ethics violation," he complained. "You wouldn't _believe_ the kind of game he shot. I'd be better off playing with a quadriplegic with a grass allergy."

"How much do you have riding on it?" she asked as she poured the wine.

"James doubled up on me yesterday but I'll see if I can get him back down to a hundred," he said.

"Greg!" she exclaimed. "_Two_ hundred dollars! And you're playing with _Nate_!"

"He double dog dared me," House whined. "What was I supposed to do?"

She gave him one of the glasses. "Did you shake on it?"

"Yeah," he sighed, taking a sip.

"Did you have your fingers crossed when you did?" she asked.

"You know," he said with a smile, "I think I might have."

"Well, then, it's not official," she said returning his smile. "You get take-backs."

"Are you advising me as my lawyer to renege on a sacred oral contract with my best friend, the very same friend who set us up?" he teased.

"I'm advising you as your financial consultant to stop making bets until you find a better fourth," she teased back.

He rolled his eyes and turned to pull the salmon out of the oven.

"Need any help?" she asked.

"No, go sit down," he said. "I'll just be a second."

She took his glass and went to the couch while he started arranging the salmon and the side dishes on two plates.

"What's this?" he heard her ask from the living room.

"What's what?" he said before he looked up. She was holding the water bottle looking at him curiously. "Oh, that."

He carried the plates over to the couch and sat down next to her, the news on in the background. He took the water bottle from her and set it aside.

"I did something to my leg today," he said cutting into the salmon. "Pulled a muscle I think."

"Golfing?" she said incredulously before biting in to the salmon. "Mmm, this is good. You should have the afternoon off more often," she said. "How'd you do that?"

"I'm not sure," he answered, "but trying to hit a ball less than two inches in diameter into a four inch hole four hundred yards away with an assortment of metal sticks is in itself a ludicrous endeavor, so it follows that one might injure oneself in an equally ludicrous way. Worst thing was," he said and took a sip of wine, "it happened in front of Nate." He laughed shortly. "Forget having the judge take one of your counsel out of a trial by the scruff of the neck—going down on your knees in front of that insufferable prick, now _that's_ embarrassing."

"I can't say I've ever gone down on my knees in front of Nate," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "but what you do in your spare time is your business." She wiped her mouth and took a drink. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," he said, chewing on a piece of asparagus. "It hurt for a while but it went away. I was trying to keep it relaxed for Saturday since I've still got two-hundred bucks on the line until I can find Wilson tomorrow. Knowing him, he might be with patients all day."

"God forbid you ever try that," she said and nudged him playfully. "Greg, this sauce—you've out-done yourself tonight."

"Well," he said adopting a suave air, "the night's not—"

"—over yet, I know," she said teasingly. "You're so bad with lines."

"They used to work!" he exclaimed, biting into another piece of fish.

"No, they didn't," she said.

"Well then why did you— so our whole relationship's been based on a lie?" he said and slumped on the couch, sulking, "I thought you liked the lines."

"I never said that," she said lightly, tugging on his arm to get him to sit back up. "They may not have worked but everything else did. You just need a better script writer, that's all."

"Wilson," House said feigning anger, "I'll kill him!"

"Eat your dinner," she admonished, forking a scalloped potato. "Anyway," she said after she swallowed, "_he_ makes them work. The lines aren't the problem."

"Aww, come on," he grumbled around a mouthful, "I'm in the middle of laying it on thick and you tell me he does it better?" He dropped his fork and flopped back on the couch, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Uncle."

"Greg," she said, "am I at his place or yours right now?"

House grunted in annoyance at having to concede that point of fact.

"And you're not listening. James may be able to say them without getting tense and nervous like you do, but when you say them I know you don't actually mean them. Which is a good thing. Your problem is that you're not any good at saying insincere things. Besides," she said leaning back on the couch and snuggling against him, "I like your other moves much better."

"Next you're gonna tell me I'm cute when I'm jealous again," he griped, but the hint of a smile on his face let her know he wasn't serious.

"You got a problem with that?" she challenged.

"What if I do?" he challenged back.

"Hmm…" she said, considering the matter, "you sulk, dinner gets cold, and I don't get to do that thing you like later." She ran a finger lightly down his chest, then pulled away suddenly, "But if you want to, far be it from me—"

"Shut up," he said sitting up again. "Dinner, as you said, is getting cold. This fish was twelve dollars a pound."

"Is that why it tastes so good?" she teased.

"One more stab at my cooking and I'll cut you off," he said. "You know how sensitive I am."

"Yeah, you make Jack look like he's made of leather," she said.

"Here we go with the Jack again," House griped.

"Greg," she said, "Gay. And monogamous."

He grunted and put the last piece of asparagus into his mouth.

"And the way you talk about James," she teased, "maybe _I _should be jealous."

"But honey, you're so cute when you're jealous," he said mockingly. "Why would I want to miss that? James did the funniest thing the other day—one his patients had just barfed on him and—"

She tickled him before he could get any further.

"Hey," he said laughing, "not right after dinner."

She smiled wickedly, then let him go and picked up the plates. He finished his glass of wine and settled down on the couch, picking up the remote to find a movie.

"Leave the dishes," he said when he heard her moving pots and pans around and water running.

"They'll be impossible to clean tomorrow," she called over the water.

"Let 'em soak, then, and come back here," he called back.

He heard the water run for a little while longer and more dishes being shifted and then she came back with the bottle of wine. She refilled both glasses and sat down next to him.

He stopped on a movie. "Independence Day?" he asked.

"You know I'm a sucker for Will Smith and explosions," she replied.

"Saving the world from an alien menace one hero at a time it is," he declared and put the remote down.

He took a sip of wine and turned on the couch. "Turn around," he said.

She did until she was almost sitting in his lap and he untucked her blouse and started rubbing her back.

"Mmm," she purred, "you really want to get laid tonight, don't you?"

"I could've stopped at dinner if I just wanted sex," he said into her neck, hands working her tense muscles until they were relaxed.

She knew better than to say anything in response.

He kissed her neck, inhaling her perfume, and pulled her down to lay on top of him, arms around her mid-section, smelling her shampoo now as they watched the movie.

He felt warm and sleepy and happy, and tried not to fall asleep.

After a while, she turned sideways on top of him and started kissing him, softly at first and then seriously. He fumbled blindly for the remote, eyes closed as he kissed her, and turned the television off. Staying awake wasn't going to be a problem after all.


	4. The Midnight Hour

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** "Three Stories"  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N: **There are times when a bit of fic just runs away from you and all you can do is try to keep up with it. Such is the case here. This is becoming a little more drawn-out than I'd expected, but I hope you like it nevertheless. Still all House/Stacy.

Well, Fox dropped the finale they had planned, so that fic I referenced earlier? no, no don't look over there. ;) A big nevermind and a haha, you got me Fox. I like this ending better.

Thanks very much for the reviews—I really appreciate them. :)

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Midnight Hour**

It was past midnight when pain woke him from a dreamless sleep.

He was slow to wake and confused at what had woken him until it crept up and he hissed softly, aware of her form next to him in the bed and not wanting to disturb her.

He lay there for a moment, feeling and thinking. The ache he'd experienced walking from the car to the clinic—this was that same ache except now it felt tighter. That could be consistent with a muscular injury: it had stiffened while he slept. Stretching it, getting up and walking it off might help, but he was sleepy, his head fuzzy from wine and sex on top of the opiod, body wanting to lie still and regenerate after sex and pain. And in a small corner in the back of his mind fear lurked as in muscle memory: move and it might come back.

All signs pointed to stay where you are and give it some time.

But he knew, he _knew_ that if it was muscular, the pain was inflammation and Ibuprofen was what he needed. It wouldn't just go away on its own, no matter how much he wanted it to. But still, except for the tightening ache, he was warm and tired and comfortable.

And he didn't want to wake her. He knew she'd pick up on the fear he didn't want to acknowledge and then she wouldn't sleep well for worrying. He was no good at hiding things from her and he didn't like hiding things in the first place. Not from her anyway. She was one of the few things that he'd done right in his life and wasn't about to blow it now.

Lucky bastard, he said to himself every day, you're such a lucky bastard. Don't screw it up, this one woman you've finally found who can not only take your shit but dish it out as good as she gets, whom you love more than you love yourself and who, amazingly, loves you back. She knows you better than you know yourself and you find in her mysteries you think you've solved returning again and again day by day, new challenges, a predictable unpredictability. And no, it's not all wine and roses, you fight over stupid things sometimes and stay mad and go to your friends and commiserate and sometimes they back you up and sometimes they tell you you're a jerk and eventually you both come around and it's good times again, laughing and feeling whole, always with a quiet sensibility that you've got this one thing right. Don't blow it.

Her soft sleeping body next to his as moonlight streamed gently through the windows to illuminate a photo on the dresser, him and her cheek to cheek smiling at some fancy dress affair: paradise.

So he lay there unmoving and ran through muscle anatomy and physiology 101 once again. If it's this muscle, stretch it this way, if that, stretch it that way. _Had_ he lifted anything heavy recently? Not that he could recall, but he treated his body like a servant and it would be just like him to do something to himself without realizing it. Lift something or push or pull something heavier than he should by himself because getting someone to help wasted his time. His body always told him when he'd gone too far. Today was just another case of that: he'd gone too far. Ibuprofen, heat, rest, good as new.

The logic he'd run through was undeniable and so, reluctantly, he slid out of bed as quietly and carefully as he could, suppressing a hiss when the pain tightened, and then he was on his feet and tiptoeing out of the bedroom. He hoped he hadn't woken her up.

She was used to him getting up at all hours of the night—he couldn't remember ever sleeping well, not even as a child—especially when he had a difficult case. He would get up and pace in the living room or watch TV with the volume down or take a short walk around the block or go over case notes in their study until he either came up with the answer he'd been looking for or she came and got him, reminding him that he needed to sleep or he wouldn't be awake when his patients needed him the next day. Sometimes he listened and sometimes he didn't.

She was no stranger to waking up alone in the morning and finding him staring at the television like a zombie, unaware that the sun had come up, or asleep in some uncomfortable position on the couch or in his favorite chair in their study, head back, mouth open, snoring, case notes littering the floor around him. She always hesitated a moment before bringing him back to reality.

But then sometimes she didn't have to get him. He'd make the leap and return to bed and she'd joke in the morning that he'd been with his Mistress Medicine last night. He'd be gloating, having called in the treatment to the hospital, and happy to take her ribbing now that he was triumphant.

And sometimes it didn't come to him in time or it didn't work and then she'd find him staring at the television at three a.m. for a different reason. She'd curl around him and say nothing until they both fell sleep in front of the TV. No matter his reputation, she knew the death of a patient bothered him. Kept him up nights. Not always, of course, but there were a few each year that hit him hard and all she could do was be there because there was nothing to say to him that would help. In law, if you screwed up it wasn't likely someone would die for it, so she didn't have to deal with the weight of death. She was thankful for that small mercy: watching him deal with it was hard enough.

He knew all of this, of course, and since it wasn't a patient keeping him up this time, he hoped he hadn't disturbed her sleep. She would undoubtedly get him if he didn't return to bed in an hour and then he'd have to tell her why he was up. She would worry and wouldn't sleep well, he thought as he shook out two Ibuprofen in the bathroom, so it was best that she not know. It wasn't anything she could help. Best to not tell her. Yes.

He went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, swallowed the pills, and retrieved the water bottle from where it had been forgotten next to the couch.

The pain hadn't really changed when he'd stood and walked around this time. He considered what that meant as he waited for the tap water to get hot.

Could still be muscular. Could be any one of a number of rarer, more insidious things. Cancer presenting with pain topped the list of possibilities. He shuddered and pushed away the thought of having his leg biopsied: no, it wasn't cancer. He didn't have cancer. He wasn't going to end up one of Wilson's bald-headed pets puking on him after chemo or crying into his shoulder when hair started coming out in fistfuls. Not cancer. Not cancer.

The way the pain felt and the way it was localized made him pretty sure it wasn't something in his back or pain referred from another area. But pain and pain alone was hard to diagnose. It could be a pinched nerve; that possibility had been in his mind since yesterday on the course. But pain caused by that would change when he moved, like it had earlier: it hadn't changed just now. So in all likelihood he _had_ lifted something heavy or run into something or done something else that would cause this type of pain. It was muscular. Heat, anti-inflammatories, rest. Case closed.

He plugged the bottle and went back to the bedroom, hoping that the sloshing of the water wouldn't wake her, or if it did, that she'd figure he'd just gotten up to go to the bathroom and wouldn't ask him about it. He was cold in the naked night and carefully opened his underwear drawer to fish out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt before he slipped with equal care back under the covers and shivered for a while until he warmed up.

By the time he finally fell asleep, too tired for the pain to keep him awake any longer, the water was cool against his leg.

* * *

A car horn outside woke him just before dawn. He lay there stiffly, clenched against pain that had never really gone away, and carefully put the water bottle on the floor before he curled on his side, hands around his thigh, trying not to breathe too heavily.

His alarm clock went off an hour later, jolting him out of a pained half-sleep, and he slapped his palm against it to shut it up. He felt her roll over to face his back and sigh in her sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip to stop the noises that wanted to come out of him.

A few minutes later her hand was on his shoulder and she was snuggling up against him. He always got up first as soon as his alarm went off, even on the mornings they had sex, so she knew something wasn't right even if she was only half-awake. Cotton t-shirt under her fingers: he was dressed. He must have gotten up during the night.

"Greg? Are you going to get up?" he heard her say into his shoulder and kiss the back of his neck lightly.

She felt the tension in his body and propped herself up on her elbow, more awake now.

"Greg? honey, what's wrong?"

"My leg hurts," he said into his pillow. It came out muffled, "m'lgurts," but she understood it.

"Did you sleep?" she asked. The only time he didn't get up at the crack of dawn was when he was very, very tired, sometimes from working all night on a case but usually because he was sick, which was in itself a rare event, and whatever it was had kept him up.

"Not really," he said, again into his pillow as if he were unwilling to say it and with a foreign voice that sounded strange to her: weariness. "I was sort of asleep but the alarm woke me up. I think I'm going to take the morning off."

"It's that bad?" she asked worriedly, wishing he would turn over so she could see his face better.

"I'm just really tired," he said. "I wouldn't do anybody any good if I went in."

"You should go back to the clinic," she suggested, running her hand lightly down his left shoulder and arm.

"I will," he said. "Later."

"Okay." Best to leave him alone: he didn't like to be bothered when he was sick. "Do you want me to get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks," he said. He moved his head a little for the first time and said over his shoulder, "Go take a shower or the judge'll drag you out of court for being tardy without a hall pass."

She smiled and kissed his neck again. "Okay."

He heard her get up and then the sound of the shower. It lulled him in to half-asleep and he half-dreamed of her getting out of the shower and dressing for work.

She watched him surreptitiously as she clasped on a necklace. He was curled up in a ball on the far left side of the bed, covers drawn up so she could only see the brown tufts of his hair over the comforter. She had just finished putting on her earrings when she saw the relaxed lump he had been go tense, sharpening under the covers, and heard him gasp softly.

She went over to his side of the bed and studied him for a moment: he looked pained and tired. When he didn't open his eyes or say anything, she picked up the abandoned water bottle and went to refill it. He'd left the Ibuprofen out in the bathroom and she put it in her pocket to bring to him.

He heard her go, awake again, and was thankful she hadn't said anything. He didn't want to be fussed over. It was embarrassing enough having to lie there like an invalid while she got ready for work.

He heard her coming back and cleared his face of pain, relaxing his body and opening his eyes. She appeared before him and he'd have let out a wolf whistle if he wasn't so tired. He settled for words instead.

"Hey, sexy," he said tiredly but with a smile. "I don't know how the prosecutor's going to keep his mind on the case today."

"Sex appeal has always been my weapon of choice," she said. "Who needs evidence when you've got a low-cut blouse to do all the hard work for you?"

"Exactly," he said. "Extra points for a well-placed pun too."

She handed him the water bottle and the Ibuprofen. He took them wordlessly.

"What do you want for breakfast?" she asked casually.

"I'm not very hungry right now," he said.

"Toast?" she suggested.

"Okay," he relented. Not a battle he could win.

She smiled lovingly at him before going to the kitchen.

He sat up and took two more Ibuprofen and tried to relax his leg muscles. The warmth of the water felt good but he couldn't tell if it was helping the pain or not. He tried not to think about it as he settled back down, the sounds of her moving in the kitchen oddly comforting to him. Probably a throwback to childhood, he thought tiredly.

She brought him a plate of toast, jam, a glass of orange juice, and a butter knife, placing all of it on the nightstand within his reach. There was just enough room for her to sit next to him on the bed.

"Call me if you need anything," she said lightly, trying not to sound worried as she brushed his hair back.

"You're in court today," he protested with half-lidded eyes, "I don't want to interrupt you."

"You're more important than a case," she said smiling, and cupped his cheek in her hand. "If you need to call me, call me. Don't hesitate." She paused, reading the stubborn, annoyed look on his face. "Or call James. But call _someone_. Don't think you can handle it on your own. I know you."

"Why is it that women think they can change men?" House grumbled. "I blame Oprah, scourge of mankind."

"If I can get you to put the seat down, I can get you to do anything," she said with a teasing smile.

"Oh but you haven't gotten me to put the seat down yet," he said triumphantly. "Sometimes I forget! and then I—no, wait—damn."

"That's right," she said, "and then you remember and you apologize." He rolled his eyes and she laughed at him. "You are so whipped."

"As whipp_er_, you don't get to say that," he said. "Only the whipp_ee_ or friends of the whippee get to say that."

"What about a friend of a friend?"

"Doesn't count. You don't have the male thing going on either and it's a prerequisite that simply can't be ignored."

"Watch it or you'll get yourself fined for discrimination again," she teased.

"That was only one time!" he exclaimed, "and she only complained cause I told her she was an idiot. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her being a woman."

"I know," she said. "I remember that case. I thought you were an arrogant bastard, but you looked _great_ in that tie."

"And I thought you were a man-eating she-male," he laughed. "Jezebel dressed to kill. I was damn glad you were on _my_ side. Guess we were both right. You _are_ a man-eater, though I was wrong about the she-male part."

"Whatever you say, dear," she said rolling her eyes.

"I guess I should know better than to try to argue with an attorney by now," he said. "But TV makes it look so easy."

"TV is rotting your brain," she said and stood. "I'll be home once the judge declares recess for lunch—"

"You don't have to come check on me," he interrupted with a sour look on his face. "It's just a—"

"_I'll be home_ once he lets us out," she insisted. "I don't want to hear about Jack's love life or Sam's weekend shopping plans or any of the usual gossip over a wilting salad today. I'd rather have Chef Boyardee out of the can here with you—hell for the company, you know."

"If I had a penny for every time you referred to me as Satan—"

"You'd have one penny and not a penny more," she said and leaned over to kiss his forehead, brushing his hair back again. "Get some rest. I'll see you in a few hours. And _call_ me if—"

"Yes, yes, okay, okay," he said, shooing her, "go now or you'll get stuck in traffic."

"Feel better," she said and kissed him on the forehead again. "I'll see you later."

"Bye," he said and rolled on to his back so he could watch her leave, pulling the covers tight around him.

"Bye," she said and turned off the lights in the bedroom and bathroom.

He waited until he heard the door close, then rolled over again, back to his untouched breakfast, the hot water bottle pressed between his legs, and tried to sleep.

* * *

He was wishing he had a cyanide capsule or some other means of dispatching himself by the time she got home.

He'd dozed fitfully, dreaming scattered half-dreams for an hour after she left, then got up to use the bathroom. By the time he'd showered and put on fresh boxers and a t-shirt, he was exhausted and limping, body tense with pain as he got a thick blanket out of the closet and went to the couch.

He lay there, sweating and shivering and breathing the tight, short gasps of pain in between heavy, deep breaths of relief, intermittently dazed and hurting for more than two hours before he realized he had a fever. He swallowed more Ibuprofen with warm orange juice, disgusting, and turned on the TV, trying hard to concentrate on CNN and get his mind off his body.

He fell back into a fevered daze, squeezing his leg against the pain there, body aching from the tension it produced, and was surprised when he heard the door open at 11:37 a.m. Watching the minutes tick by had been the best he could do in terms of concentration.

"Greg?" he heard her say from the foyer.

"You're home early," he called back, sounding weak to himself. He cursed inwardly. He didn't want to worry her, but this on top of what she'd seen earlier was definitely going to do just that.

"The judge declared a mistrial after all," she said coming into the living room. "We're going to try to settle out of court again."

She was worried as soon as she saw him: pale, sweaty, and haggard on the couch.

He propped himself up on his elbows as she came around the couch and bent down to kiss him. His face was hot against hers.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, resisting the urge to kneel next to him, knowing he wouldn't appreciate it.

"Tired," he said lying back down and pulling the blanket up to his chin. "Cold."

"You're running a fever," she observed mildly.

"Yeah," he said with a sigh, closing his eyes. "Low-grade, though."

"Did you go to the clinic?" she asked.

"Not yet," he replied.

"Ibuprofen help?"

"Not really," he said sleepily. "But it doesn't hurt much now."

"How much is much?" she asked lightly, trying to sound casual as trepidation edged into her voice.

He opened his eyes again and she saw enough pain in them to make his next words an unqualified lie.

"Not too much," he said and his eyes fluttered closed again.

"I'm going to take you back to the clinic, okay?" she said, trying to disguise the worry she felt. Greg never got sick. Not this sick. Never. "Give me a few minutes and—"

"No," he said strongly from the couch. Then, softly, plaintively, "I just want to sleep."

"You're sick," she said, worry rising in her voice, "and you're in pain—"

"They don't want to see me there," he said tiredly.

"Why not?" she said. "You _work _there."

"It's not that," he said. He opened his eyes and sat up a little on his elbows again, looking at her apologetically. He couldn't avoid it any longer and he sighed to himself. "I went there yesterday," he said. "I told you the pain went away but I didn't tell you how." He took a deep breath. "It was bad—really bad. I got some kid who probably graduated last week and she kept asking me questions, but it hurt so much that I couldn't stand it and I…kind of grabbed a syringe of Demerol from the nurse and injected myself." He sighed again. "They think I'm a drug addict, so I kind of doubt they'd treat me." He laughed a little, bitterly, and said, "I think she put an APB out on me."

"Why wouldn't they give it to you?" she asked, concern filling her voice.

"The…pain got really bad in the waiting room," he said with another sigh, "and things happened really fast. She never got my chart and she kept asking me if I was allergic to it but I couldn't answer and…I just couldn't take it so I grabbed it from the guy." He looked down, fidgeting with the tasseled corner of the blanket. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," she said, squatting now and stroking his cheek. "You didn't do anything wrong. But why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I didn't want to worry you," he said, catching her hand and kissing it lightly. "I thought it would go away."

"I'll call your doctor and get an appointment," she said, standing, and started toward the phone.

"He doesn't work Fridays," House said and she stopped.

"I'm sure James would look at you," she reasoned.

"I don't want to bother him," House said.

"Then we're going to the E.R.," she said resolutely.

"No," he protested, "I—look, just give it some time, okay?" He lay back down and pulled the blanket tighter around him. "I'm really tired and I don't want to go anywhere."

"Okay," she conceded. She kissed his forehead and smiled down at him. "We'll give it a few hours." She ran her fingers through his damp hair and he smiled slightly, closing his eyes. "I'm going to make some lunch. Do you want any?"

"Not right now," he said tiredly.

"Okay," she smiled and brushed his hair again. "Where's your water bottle?"

"It doesn't help."

"Greg—"

"No, honey, please, I just want to sleep," he said, eyes begging her. "I didn't sleep this morning. I'm so tired. Please."

"Okay, a few hours," she said and smiled bravely at him. "I'll be in the other room if you need anything. Go to sleep."

She watched him for a long moment as he tried to settle down. Once he was comfortable, she lightly brushed her hand against his hair again and went quietly to the study to work.

He shivered and let out a slow breath of pain before he dug his fingers back into his thigh and set his teeth, hoping she wouldn't come back and find him this way. If he could just sleep it would go away, he thought, as he rocked slightly under the covers. If he could just sleep….

* * *

He slept for a while, dreaming uncertainly again, and woke suddenly: he had to pee. Now.

He got up slowly from the couch, wincing as the pain worsened and shivering though the apartment wasn't cold. He was drained but he couldn't ignore the urge to urinate.

She heard him moving around and came out of the study to see him hunched over and shaking, favoring his right leg and holding onto furniture to get across the room.

"Greg?" she said going to his right side and slipping under him to take some of his weight.

"I'm okay," he said between gasps, "I'm okay. Gotta pee."

"You're not okay," she said as she helped him down the hall. "You can barely walk. You're burning up."

"Yeah, okay, there's that," he gasped out, "but I _feel_ better."

"You're a terrible liar," she said.

She let him go into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, then went immediately to their bedroom and got a pair of sweatpants out. She found her purse and made sure she had everything, keys, wallet, and was waiting for him when he opened the door.

"What?" he said when he saw her with her purse over her shoulder and sweatpants in her hand. He leaned against the door frame and rubbed his face, weight shifted on his left side.

"We're going to the E.R. Now." She held the pants out. "Put these on."

"No, I—"

"No arguments," she said sternly. "It would've gotten better by now if it was going to get better. You're worse. You look like crap." She offered him the pants again. "You can put these on or go as you are, but we're going."

He dropped his head in defeat and blew out a sigh. "Give me the damn pants," he grumbled.

She helped him keep his balance as he stepped into the pants. His t-shirt was damp and his body hot against hers. She could feel him trembling, his muscles burning energy.

"I think they have a no shoes, no shirt, no service policy," he breathed. "We're missing the first one. Or are we challenging policy today?"

"Are your sandals in the closet?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think," he said.

She made sure he was balanced against the door frame and let him go.

"I'd always heard doctors made the worst patients," she called from the closet, "but I never thought it would turn out to be so true."

"We're only bad patients cause we know exactly what can go wrong," he said tiredly, leaning heavily on the door with his head resting on his right arm, "and because most of the time there's nothing we can do and it'd be better for the patient to just stay home, drink clear liquids, and take a day off."

"What about now?" she asked walking up to him, then helping him get the shoes on.

He knew what she was asking: what does this mean? She was scared. She saw all of the cases where the worst happened, so she knew exactly how badly things could go just like he did. And though he wouldn't admit it, he was scared too.

"They'll run some tests," he said. "Lots of poking and stealing bodily fluids and asking questions and they'll probably find nothing. I shouldn't have gone to the bathroom just now, or I should've peed in a cup or something. Tell me in advance next time." He paused and looked into her eyes. "It's going to suck," he said tiredly. "I don't want to do it."

"I'm sorry," she said, noting the red lining his eyes, the bags under them, the heavy lids. "But you don't have a choice."

"I know," he said resignedly. "Thank you…for being here." She smiled bravely at him again. "Let's get this over with," he said and put his right arm around her shoulders, grunting softly as they stepped forward.

She hid the fear she felt under that same brave smile and tried not to think about how warm he was and how much pain he was in as she helped him out of the apartment, into the elevator, and finally into the car. She started the car and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, the ghost of a smile on his contorted features making her feel only a little better as she put the car in drive and hit the gas pedal. She hoped that whatever it was, it would be easy to diagnose and cure and he'd be out on the golf course playing for two hundred dollars and bragging rights tomorrow afternoon.


	5. Never Get Sick in July

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N: **This chapter got loooooong on me. Since nothing really happens in it, I apologize for the twenty pages of nothing much happening you see before you. It's all House/Stacy too. :ducks: Sorry! Wilson makes a cameo in the next chapter.

Continuity note: I know it's obvious that 'mid-thirties guy' is in a clinic in the 'peeing blood' scene. I have no reason for setting this in the E.R. rather than the clinic except that it seemed like the next logical step especially since House got himself on the clinic's shit list the day before. So, just to give you my rationalization...

Also, I'm no doctor—the last experience I had with anything remotely medical was the Biology CLEP test in college—so please forgive any errors in the medical realism. The internet can only take one so far...

Abbreviation guide for your edification:  
T3 - Tylenol 3 or Tylenol with codeine; codeine is an opiate.  
CK - creatine kinase; referred to in the episode; elevated CK can indicate muscle damage but a variety of factors such as age, athleticism, gender, and drug ingestion can affect it; this particular doc should conduct further tests but doesn't because he's a jackanape.  
GP – general practitioner, a.k.a. regular non-emergency doctor.Thanks to Rococoms for helping me with the blood work stuff.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Never Get Sick in July**

House rested his head against the wall, eyes closed, trying to relax in the navy blue E.R. waiting room chair while Stacy filled out a form next to him. He was beyond tired. Every little thing was annoying him. The seventeen year old kid with the screaming baby had been grating on his nerves since they walked in, but the girl and the baby with the ear infection had just gone back, leaving the E.R. in relative peace and quiet, so now all he had to be annoyed over was the scratching of pen on paper next to him.

"Put this down," he said. "Acute intermittent pain in right quadriceps, onset twenty-four hours ago, accompanied by low-grade fever, onset six hours ago, and general fatigue. Patient took 2400 milligrams Ibuprofen over a ten hour period after initial presentation of pain to little effect."

"That won't fit," Stacy pointed out.

"Write small," he said.

"Greg—"

"They're looking for a reason, Stacy," he said. "I don't want to give them one. If we're going to do this—if _I'm _going to do this—I want to get it right the first time." He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face.

"What about the Demerol?" she asked. "I know you didn't forget."

"Burn that bridge when I get there," he said tiredly.

"Your funeral."

"May be."

_Don't say that_, she thought automatically but she let him have it. She took the form to the check-in station and filled a conical paper cup with water before she returned.

He heard her settle back into the chair next to him and didn't acknowledge her. All of his energy was focused on combating pain and resisting the insistent urge to curl up into a ball on the floor and growl at anyone who came near him.

"Here," she said to get his attention.

He slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at the proffered cup once, then at her, and then shut his eyes again.

"You're getting dehydrated," she wheedled.

"Not thirsty," he said.

"Doesn't matter," she replied.

"Don't want to," he mumbled.

"Stop being a bitch and drink the damn water."

"Normally I like it when you get rough and bossy," he said, "but this is neither the time nor the place."

"I'm not above holding your nose and pouring it down your throat," she said. "Consider that fair warning."

He mumbled an obscenity and held his hand out. The water in the cup was cold and a shiver passed through him. Reluctantly and with effort, he opened his eyes and brought the water to his mouth, sipping it. He rubbed his thigh absently.

"It doesn't really hurt anymore," he said.

It was a half-truth: he wasn't doubling over in pain like he had been on the ride over, but it still bothered him enough that he'd take four Ibuprofen right now if he had the chance.

"We're already here," she pointed out.

"Not too late to leave," he said wishfully. "Go home. Take a hot bubble bath. Maybe go out to dinner. Or just go to the office and work. I know you're busy and I'm sure I could find _something _to do. I need to try out my new slinky on the stairs. I think it can take them this time."

"You're hitting your second childhood about forty years too early," she said.

"Your point, Queen Obvious?"

"We're already here, King Weiner."

"Low blow," he said. He adopted a Clintonesque tone: "I am not a hot dog."

She slipped in to a good imitation of Clinton: "And you did not have sex with that woman."

"That joke is so old," he said.

"Still funny," she countered.

"No it's not."

He crushed the paper cup in his hand, squeezing it tighter than he would have if he weren't trying to deflect pain. She noticed and was about to say something when a nurse called his name.

"Gregory House?"

"You put down 'Gregory'?" he said.

She shrugged. "That's what your diplomas say."

"My diplomas are filthy liars," he said tilting his head back again and closing his eyes.

"Gregory House?"

"Come on," Stacy said and tugged at his left arm.

He didn't move. "Give her another thirty seconds and she'll think I'm not here and we can go home."

"This is Gregory House," Stacy called across the room.

"Damn you," House muttered.

He let her help him up and across the room, trying not to limp or lean on her too much.

The nurse took his vitals in the triage area and read back the note he'd dictated to Stacy.

"Wow, you got every word," he said to Stacy. "Nice." He turned to the nurse. "Actually, I'm feeling a lot better but my shrew Katerina here won't let me return to my counting house in peace." He leaned in and added conspiratorially, "She's jealous of all the time I spend with the benjamins."

The nurse looked askance at him and then questioningly at Stacy.

"He's always this obnoxious," Stacy explained.

The nurse made a note, unimpressed, then asked him the questions he'd been asked yesterday.

He answered them perfunctorily. He'd been golfing. No, he hadn't lifted anything that he could remember. No, he hadn't had any trauma to the area. No, he didn't have pain anywhere else. He was tired, he felt like crap, and he just wanted to go home but his damned stubborn girlfriend forced him to come.

The nurse taped a bracelet around his right wrist and Stacy took him back to the waiting area.

He collapsed in a chair with a grunt. "It's official now," he said with a sigh, toying with the bracelet.

"I'm not going to fight with you over this," she said. "You need to get checked out."

"Whatever," he mumbled and tilted his head back against the wall again.

She took his left hand in hers and caressed his arm lightly. "At least you get to lie down soon."

"You make it sound so peaceful," he muttered. "It's not."

Pain tightened in his leg and he hissed involuntarily, both hands gripping his thigh.

"Still wanna go home?" she asked wryly.

"Shut up," he said tightly.

The pain worsened and he curled forward in the chair, eyes shut, biting his lip, breathing harshly. "Ahhgh, God," he squeezed out between clenched teeth.

She put one hand on his left shoulder and rubbed his back with the other. She could feel how tense his body was under her hands. Too warm and shaking slightly. She reassured herself that they'd help him soon or at least give him something to make him more comfortable.

The pain began to lessen and he eased his hold on his leg and slowly leaned back, exhausted from the effort. Her hands went back to his arm and he was silently grateful for her presence.

He breathed carefully, relieved, and relaxed his face, eyes still shut. He shivered in the air conditioned room, fully aware that he shouldn't be cold.

She hadn't said anything. For that he was also grateful because he knew she was thinking. Instead, she kept rubbing his arm and holding his hand. He didn't want to acknowledge how much better that made him feel.

They sat for ten minutes without saying a word. House was concentrating on fending off pain and staying awake and Stacy was concentrating on not storming up to the first doctor or nurse she saw and dressing them down for not helping Greg sooner.

Every few minutes, the pain would get worse and he'd set his jaw and grunt and she'd watch him worriedly.

She was relieved when his name was finally called again.

She helped him up and wrapped herself around his right side to support him. He moved slowly, unable to avoid limping outright now, and kept his eyes closed, trusting her to lead him in the right direction.

The nurse pointed them to an exam room and Stacy steered him in. He dropped with a sigh on to the gurney and didn't move.

He felt her fingers in his hair again and opened his eyes to see her peering down at him, face full of worry. He smiled a little and took her hand out of his damp hair and kissed the palm.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Don't worry."

She tried to smile back at him but it was hard when he looked so wiped out.

She put her purse down and pulled the room's only chair next to the gurney while he pulled his shirt off and draped the gown that had been neatly folded waiting for him over his shoulders. He stood carefully, hand on her shoulder for support, and slid his pants and boxers off, wordlessly handing them to her. She folded them and put them next to her purse.

He lay down on his right side and she unfolded the thick sheet and covered him with it. He curled in to a ball and pulled the sheet up to his chin, shivering until he felt himself warm up. She sat next to him and took his right hand in hers again, brushing his hair back. His left hand snaked under the sheet to rub his thigh and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see her so worried: it made him feel guilty and scared on top of cold and pained and tired.

They were alone for a few minutes before the door opened and a young doctor stepped in.

"Dr. House?" he said.

House opened his eyes and nodded slightly.

"I'm Dr. Young," he said. _Fitting_, House thought. "I don't believe we've met but I've heard a lot about you." House suppressed a snort. "I understand you're having leg pain?"

"In layman's terms, yeah," House muttered. He was too tired to be pissed off at this guy's obvious incompetence.

"And I have a note here that says you came to our clinic yesterday?" he asked.

"If that's what it says…" House mumbled.

"And that you took a syringe of Demerol from the nurse and injected yourself?"

"Something like that, yeah," he said.

"The doctor who saw you yesterday, Dr. Yin, said she found nothing wrong with you," Young said. "She suggested that you were drug seeking."

"That was the impression she seemed to get," House said.

"And you say you're still experiencing pain?" he said skeptically.

"That's what I said."

"Can you give me a pain rating?" he asked.

"It comes and goes," House said, fully aware of how bogus that sounded in light of what he'd done yesterday. "Right now it's about a four, but it went up to an eight earlier. On average, I'd say a five or six."

"Why didn't you come in earlier when it was worse?" Young asked.

"I didn't want to come in then and I don't want to be here now," House grumbled. "She made me come," he said gesturing with his head to Stacy.

The doctor looked questioningly at Stacy.

"He's been like this all day," she said, voice edged with steel. "He's not a drug addict. He doesn't take drugs. He's sick."

"Okay," the doctor said glancing at House's chart. "You are running a slight fever. The nurse will be in to draw labs in a few minutes. May I have a look at the injection site?"

Stacy let go of his hand and he rolled on to his back and flipped the sheet away. Stacy stood and moved out of the way, turning her back to House and the doctor to let him have some privacy. Now that he couldn't see her, she bit her knuckle.

House tensed as Young pressed around the puncture wound. "Red," he said to himself, "and a little swollen." He paused and looked up at House. "Does it hurt?"

"Not compared to the rest of my leg," House said snidely.

"Okay," Young said and straightened up. His hands hovered over House's quad. "Does this hurt?" he asked and pressed on the muscle.

House yelped and his hands flew to his leg.

"Oww, God yes that hurts, don't do that! Jesus Christ!"

Young stepped back as House rolled around on the bed clutching his leg, groaning, face clenched in pain. Stacy whirled around and skidded to the bed, putting both hands on House's shoulder and withdrawing them just as quickly when he thrashed away.

"What did you do?" she barked at the doctor.

"I was just checking his leg," Young said defensively. House's reaction seemed entirely too dramatic to be real.

"It hurts, okay," she spat. "He's not looking for a fix. He's in pain. He's a respected member of this hospital's faculty. Why don't you people believe him?"

"I'm sorry he's in pain," Young said, "but I have to do an exam. He knows that."

"You could've been a little gentler," she growled and brushed House's hair with shaking fingers. "It's okay," she said soothingly as he rode the pain out.

House stopped thrashing after a while and went limp on the mattress, breathing harshly.

"Don't do that again," he panted at the doctor. "Agghhh," he groaned and rubbed his leg carefully.

Young finished making a note on House's chart and said condescendingly, "I'm ordering a CBC, Chem panel, and a urine dip. The nurse will be in soon."

"Are you going to give him something for the pain?" Stacy asked, hands on House's shoulder, feeling him shake with relief.

"After we draw the labs," Young said. "It'll interfere with the test results otherwise."

Stacy looked like she was going to challenge him when House put his hand on hers.

"It's okay," he said tiredly, letting his eyes fall shut, "it's okay."

Stacy stared at Young for a moment longer before she broke the gaze and let him go. She sat down angrily muttering a string of curses at the doctor's back.

"I can't believe him!" she exclaimed.

"You can't sue him for being an asshole," House murmured from the bed.

"Doesn't mean I can't want to," she mumbled.

House laughed weakly. "You should see how _I_ treat drug-seekers," he said.

"Do you personally toss them out of the hospital?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said and grimaced. He rolled on to his right side again to face her, pulling the sheet around him, his left hand going automatically to his thigh.

She picked up his right hand and kissed it.

"I'm worried," she confessed. "If it's a pulled muscle, you shouldn't be running a fever. It shouldn't hurt this much."

"I know," House said. "I know. But it's probably nothing. Just an infection or something…" He trailed off and shifted a little under the sheet until he was comfortable.

She caressed his hand with her thumb and he squeezed it to show his appreciation.

"Do you want me to call James to look at you?" she asked. "This guy obviously doesn't know what he's doing and—"

House's eyes flew open. One word rang out in his mind: cancer.

"No!" he said more loudly than he'd intended. "No," he repeated in a normal tone. "I don't want to bother him."

"But—"

"Let's just…wait for the test results first, okay?" he said. "This guy can screw up a lot of things, but he can't screw up labs. That's the lab's job. And even if they do it's no problem—just rerun the labs."

He closed his eyes tiredly and tried to block the word 'cancer' out of his mind. He did _not_ have cancer. He did _not_.

But he could see it now, in his mind, that look Wilson got on his face when he had to break the news. Wilson would sit him down in his office, Stacy would hold his hand and cry, he would stay calm and ask the appropriate questions and Wilson would tell him whatever and then it would be surgery or straight to chemo, destroying his veins, and he'd have to hear the words: _there's nothing else we can do. I'm sorry. You're dying_.

_You're dying you're dying you're dying I'm sorry there's nothing we can do I'm sorry Greg you're dying_.

"Greg? Honey? What's wrong?"

Her hand in his.

He realized he was hyperventilating and mentally slowed his breathing and his wild pulse.

"Nothing," he managed to get out, "it's okay. My leg." His left hand moved under the sheet.

He felt her run her fingers through his hair again.

"You're scared," she said softly and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back but said nothing. He didn't want to say it. Didn't want to think it.

"What's taking so long," he murmured.

"I'll go see," she said but his hand tightened around hers before she could get up.

"No," he said, "stay."

"Okay," she said and smiled at him though his eyes were closed and he couldn't see.

A few minutes later a young nurse walked in apologizing for the wait. Stacy kissed House's hand and let it go, standing up and moving aside.

House looked up at her as the nurse tied a tourniquet around his bicep and swabbed his inner elbow. Stacy cringed at the sight of the needle.

"You don't have to watch," he said eyes fixed on her.

She shifted her gaze to his face, his beautiful blue eyes, and saw him flinch slightly as the needle pierced his vein. She kept her eyes on him, taking in the features she knew so well again. They were pained now. She'd never seen them like this.

They stared at each other for a long moment before the nurse snapped the tourniquet off his arm and pressed a cotton ball on the puncture site. He drew his arm up to staunch the bleeding with a familiar motion: he gave blood whenever he was asked to and sometimes when he wasn't asked. He knew firsthand that every pint made a difference, but more importantly it got him out of clinic duty: all he had to do was say he was feeling woozy and he'd be excused to go lie down in his office. McAllister wasn't the smartest guy around and he hadn't figured the scheme out yet; he'd even openly commended House for so freely volunteering to donate blood. Plus he got a cool mug out of the deal one time.

The nurse handed him a plastic cup.

He looked at it and said apologetically, "I, ah, don't think I can go. That is, I went before we came. And, ahhh…"

"Okay," she said. "I'll be right back."

"Wait," House said and held his hand out for the cup. He knew what the alternative was and he didn't like it, though it seemed inevitable. "I guess I can try…"

She gave him the cup, collected the blood she'd drawn, and closed the door behind her.

"Help me sit up," he said to Stacy, still holding his right arm up with the cotton wedged in it. "I know I can't pee lying down."

She helped him up and he pulled the lid off the container and hesitated.

"This is weird," he said.

"You want to go to the bathroom?" she asked.

"No," he said, "that won't help. I'm too tired anyway. But…"

"I'll be outside," she said smiling.

"Thanks," he said.

She left and he slipped the cup under the sheet and positioned himself, concentrating on the sound of water, the image of water falling, willing his kidneys to turn the liquid he'd had earlier into urine. He grunted softly with effort and concentrated harder. Finally, he gave up, put the lid back on the container and lay back down on his side, genitals recoiling at the thought of what would come next.

He heard a soft tap on the door and raised his voice, "Come in."

Stacy came in and saw him curled up on his side again, empty cup next to him. "No luck, huh?"

"Gonna have to do it the hard way," he said as she sat down next to him. "_Tell me_ next time."

"I'm sorry," she said and brushed a crooked finger along his cheek. "You didn't shave this morning," she observed.

"I'm growing a beard," he said. "What do you think of it so far?"

"It's scratchy," she said rubbing his face again. "Reminds me of a cactus."

"Perfect," he said. "I've always been prickly."

"And prickish," she added.

"Hey, c'mon, go easy," he complained with a smile, "I'm about to have a hollowed out stick shoved up my urethra here."

Her face fell and he quickly took her hand.

"No, it's okay," he said, "it's not your fault."

"It sucks," she said.

"It does suck," he agreed.

"What about the water you had?" she asked. "That was over half an hour ago. Should that have helped?"

"Yeah," he said. "It should've made an appearance by now…maybe that's what's wrong with me. Infection on top of a messed up muscle."

His leg twitched and he gasped, right hand disappearing under the sheet to join his left hand, reflexively tightening his face.

"They can give you something after they get a urine sample, can't they?" she asked worriedly.

"Yeah," House breathed, pain subsiding. He took a deep breath and sighed. "But they don't want to."

"That's why I'm here," she said. "They're going to give you something to make you feel better or—"

"You'll go lawyer on their ass?" he finished. "I love it when you get all lawyery. Habeas corpus really turns me on."

"You do spend a lot of time pleading a doggerel version of the fifth," she added.

"They can't make me say nuthin," he said. "Not a thing."

The door opened and the nurse came back in with a urinary catheterization kit.

"Here we go," House mumbled and rolled on to his back with a wince. He reached instinctively for Stacy's hand. She took it and squeezed it lightly.

"Can't you, ahh, give me some water and wait a few minutes?" he asked nervously as the nurse opened the kit, knowing it was futile but compelled to ask all the same.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said, "we need a sample now."

She snapped on a pair of gloves and looked at Stacy.

"Ma'am, could you step outside?" she asked politely.

Stacy got up to leave but House didn't let her hand go, keeping her from standing fully. "No," he said, "she can stay."

"Sir—"

"It's my call," he said tightly, "she stays."

"Greg, you don't have to—"

His grip tightened around her hand.

"I don't want you to leave," he said.

She could hear a hint of fear in his voice.

"Okay," she said and sat down again.

The nurse looked at them briefly. "This is an uncomfortable and revealing procedure," she said. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be alone for this?"

"I'm a doctor," he said dryly, "I know what it means. Get to it."

He moved the sheet and lifted his gown up to form a screen of sorts so that he wouldn't have the sight of it in front of him. Despite his words and the knowledge of what went where, he tensed automatically when he felt her swab his penis with betadine.

"Okay," she said. "Take a deep breath."

House did as he was told and hissed, grimacing, squeezing Stacy's hand as the tube went in. He squinted at the wall above his legs and Stacy watched his face, unwilling to look at anything else.

A minute passed and House glanced expectantly at the nurse.

"I'm not getting anything," she said. "We're going to leave it in for a little while, okay?"

House grunted a soft acknowledgement, body tense.

"Try to relax," the nurse said connecting the tube to a bag and hanging the bag on the side of the bed. "The more relaxed you are, the easier it will be."

"Isn't there some other way?" Stacy asked anxiously.

"No, I'm sorry," the nurse said. "We need a urine sample." House shivered visibly as he let to gown go, happy when she gave him the sheet again.

"Can he have a blanket or another sheet?" Stacy asked. "He's cold."

The nurse nodded, tossing the gloves into the medical waste bin.

House's breath hitched and he curled up on his side again, shaking, eyes shut, miserable.

"What about giving him something for the pain now?" Stacy asked the nurse. "He's been in pain all day."

"I'll ask his doctor," she said and propped the door open again before she left.

"Thank you," House said tiredly to Stacy.

"They've waited too long already," she said with annoyance. "They should have done this yesterday. You shouldn't have to suffer like this."

He made an indistinct noise.

The nurse came back with a warmed sheet and Stacy helped her cover House with it.

He sighed happily at the warmth. He wanted to ask about the urine output but his brain was lethargic now.

"Anything?" he heard Stacy ask.

"Not enough yet to give to the lab," the nurse answered. "The doctor will be in soon."

He heard the nurse leave and Stacy sit down next to him again.

"How are you doing?" she asked softly.

"I want to go home," he murmured.

"We will," she said reassuringly. "Do you want some water? Make this go faster?"

"No," he said quietly. "I'm tired."

"Okay," she said and he felt her touch his forehead briefly, then her hands fell away.

Except for the tension in his face and body, he seemed to be asleep.

Stacy sat with her hands folded in her lap, worrying, wondering what was wrong with him. They'd been together for almost four years and she'd never seen him look this bad. They'd each had their share of food poisoning, colds, flus, and nasty hangovers, but it took something with a real wallop to keep either of them from going to work. The way he'd looked this morning, so pained and helpless, scared her. She wanted to believe what he was telling her, that it was just a badly pulled muscle and an infection, but she had a sick feeling that it was much worse than that. She tried to reassure herself that he was in good hands here, that if anything was seriously wrong with him they'd catch it in his labs.

She snuck a look at the bag hanging on the bed. It had a little urine in it but not much. That didn't seem right even to her and she wasn't the nephrologist in the room. But she knew how he thought, how fast his mind moved, and that he'd probably thought of everything it could be as soon as he couldn't pee in the cup. Hell, he'd probably thought of all of that yesterday; he just wasn't sharing his hypotheses. But she didn't really expect him to. She'd never seen anyone so tired as he was right now. She wished she could do something, anything at all to help him.

_Where _was that idiot doctor?

She wasn't prone to anger, but the way they were treating him…. Her analytical mind went over the facts of the case: yes, they had a reason to suspect that he was faking to score narcotics, but his reputation meant more than that. She started mentally ticking off the character witnesses she could call. Okay, there weren't that many, but everyone she could think of had a sterling reputation to match Greg's. Jesus, look at James. The head of oncology was retiring in two years and talk had been floating around since the announcement about who would replace her. James' name was on everyone's list and he was only thirty-five.

The same with Greg. He'd been a candidate last year when the head of nephro retired and he'd turned down the offer. He hated administrative duties. And he'd been gravitating toward diagnostics since she met him. Actually, he lived in his own little universe in nephrology, taking five times more general cases than specific nephro cases. She knew he'd been toying with the idea of reviving the department of diagnostics. McAllister would probably let him; Greg was the one dragging his feet. He didn't want to have to run numbers and justify it to the board and hire people to work for him because he'd have to run this department himself and he knew it. She'd offered to help him many times, of course, because she knew how the administration worked and thought and she didn't mind working with them or running the numbers that needed to be run and coming up with the necessary justifications, but he always gave her a vague answer and that tabled the subject. He was happy in his niche and Ang, who'd become the head of nephro when Greg declined, was happy to let him be. Greg didn't want power. It was never about power for him. He helped people. He did it for reasons she didn't always understand given the way he griped about them all the time, but he did it nonetheless. She loved him for that.

But now. Who was helping him? No one. She was very tempted to call James. Or Ang. Or anyone who knew him and worked here. But she knew he wouldn't appreciate it. He growled at her until she left him alone every time he was sick, preferring to suffer by himself—like last year when he couldn't keep anything down for two days straight and he flatly refused to let her take him to the E.R.—so she knew that having her witness this was enough of a blow to his ego in itself. But honestly, there were times when his stubborn pride needed to take a blow for the sake of his health. She didn't know yet if this was one of those times. As much as she hated it, she knew that he was right and they'd have to wait on the labs first. She just didn't like waiting.

She looked over at him. Pale and sweaty, his mouth a tiny line, forehead furrowed, eyes tightly shut: he was anything but comfortable. She snuck another peek at the Foley bag: no change there. Enough. She couldn't just sit there while he suffered.

She got up quickly and was out the door, heedless of any attempt he might have made to stop her. She asked again about getting him some pain meds and was told that the doctor would be with them soon and, having nothing else to do, she got a cup from them filled it with water.

House was just as she'd left him when she returned. She sat down and stroked his face lightly.

"Greg?" she said softly.

He made a low noise in his throat and didn't move.

"Honey?"

He sighed and opened his eyes. "What?"

"You need to drink something or we'll be here all night."

"Just give it a little more time," he said tiredly and closed his eyes again.

"It's been ten minutes already with no change," she said.

He grunted.

"Let me get this straight," she said, "you _want_ it to say in _longer_?"

He groaned with annoyance. "Oh all right," he muttered and propped himself up on his right elbow, taking the cup from her.

He shivered as he swallowed the water, drinking all of it at once. He handed the empty cup back to her and lay down again, pulling the sheets up.

"They said the doctor's going to be in soon," she said.

"Mmm," he said. "Taking his sweet time…"

She sighed angrily. "I'm calling James," she said.

House opened his eyes and looked up at her. "And people call _me_ impatient," he said tiredly with a half-smile. "Don't bug him."

"You're so damn stubborn," she muttered. "What about Lindsey?"

"Who?"

"Dr. Ang. Your department head."

"No, no," House said. "It's bad enough as it is, having to be here at all. I don't want her to see me like this. Or Wilson."

"Ten minutes," she said, "I'm giving them ten minutes to get their act together and then I'm calling someone."

House stared at her for a moment before he sighed resignedly, realizing he couldn't win this one even if he had all of his strength.

"Fine," he said dejectedly.

Her face instantly softened. She reached out to stroke his hair. "I just want you to get the treatment you deserve," she said.

"I know," he said. He looked past her to the floor. "I hate this. I don't want to be here."

"I know," she said sympathetically. "We'll stop on the way home and get you a gallon of chocolate ice cream."

He smiled slightly, then grimaced, hand tightening around his leg, body tightening under the sheets. He couldn't stop himself from whimpering as it got worse, right hand slipping under the sheet, rocking back and forth on the gurney. A pained noise escaped him and Stacy stood anxiously and started pacing.

He shuddered suddenly, went rigid, and relaxed.

"It's gone," he breathed, more for her benefit than anything else.

She stood over him and smiled sadly, cupping his cheek in her hand.

"How's my pee?" he asked.

She glanced at the bag. "It's almost half-full," she said. "That's enough, right?"

"Should be," he said.

"I'll get the nurse," she said.

He nodded and closed his eyes tiredly.

He drifted, tired enough that pain was ceasing to matter to him, and was half-asleep when Stacy returned with a nurse.

"Oh my God," he heard Stacy say, "Greg—it's red. It's not supposed to be red."

He opened his eyes and glanced up at her. "No," he said calmly, "it's not. But that makes sense." He reached for her hand. "It's okay," he said reassuringly, "don't worry. It'll tell us something. It doesn't hurt." He glanced at the nurse. "Can you take it out now?" He looked back at Stacy, though he addressed the nurse. "It doesn't hurt but it's not exactly comfortable either."

"Yes," the nurse said. "Turn on to your back please."

He did, painfully, and shivered when she moved the sheets. He was too tired to care about preserving modesty and didn't move to shield the scene with the tail of his gown this time.

"Take a deep breath and blow out on the count of three," she said.

He winced as she removed the tube and cleaned up him, relieved when she let him have the sheets back.

"The doctor will be with you soon," she said collecting the bag.

House grabbed Stacy's hand before she could fly at the nurse. "Stace," he said, "sit down. Getting angry won't help anything."

"It does when you do it," she grumbled.

"It'll only make things worse," he said.

"They don't still think you're a junkie?" she asked disbelievingly.

"They do," he said.

"That's it," she said, "I'm calling James."

He didn't let her hand go. "No," he said adamantly.

Before she could respond, the doctor arrived with the nurse behind him.

"Got your blood work back," he said studying a piece of paper. "Everything was normal except for an elevated CK level which is consistent with self-injection and muscle strain."

House nodded slightly.

"The nurse tells me there's blood in your urine. We'll test it, obviously, but with fever and chills, it's probably a urinary tract infection. Have you had any difficulty urinating or pain when you urinate?"

"No," House said.

"Frequent urges?"

"No," he muttered.

"How many times would you say—"

"Twice," House said through clenched teeth. "Three times if you count the sample you just took."

Young nodded and made a note then turned to Stacy, annoyed at House's attitude. "Has he been eating normally today?"

"He says he's not hungry," she said. "You haven't eaten anything all day, have you?" she asked House.

"I had toast this morning," House said.

"No you didn't," she said. "I saw it in the trash. Why would you lie to me?"

"I don't want to worry you," he mumbled.

"Great job," she said. "I'm _so_ not worried right now."

"O…kay," Young said uncomfortably. "Any nausea or vomiting?"

"No," House said. "I just wasn't hungry. Pain isn't great for the appetite."

"You're also somewhat dehydrated," Young said.

"Yeah, I know," House grumbled. "Having a rubber tube shoved up my dick kind of tipped me off to that."

"We'll start a saline drip," Young said. "That should make you feel better."

"No," House protested. "Just run the urinalysis and let me go home."

"Greg!" Stacy hissed, "why are you being so difficult!"

"I don't want to be here," he mumbled. "No IVs."

Stacy looked at Young to back her up.

Young just shrugged. "If he doesn't want it…" he said. "I'll be back with those results soon."

"What about giving him some pain medicine?" Stacy asked before he could leave. "We've been here for over an hour and you still haven't given him anything."

Young glanced at House, who was watching him expectantly, and narrowed his eyes at Stacy. "Twenty-five of Demerol IM," he said to the nurse.

"That's not enough," Stacy said.

"We'll start with twenty-five and if he needs more—"

"No," she growled. "He is _not_ trying to get high. Don't lowball him just because you think—"

"No," House interrupted, "it's okay."

"No it's not," Stacy said to House. She turned back to the doctor. "Can I speak with you outside?"

She stalked out of the room without waiting for him to answer.

House only heard part of the conversation, but the words 'lawsuit,' 'negligence,' and 'malpractice' came up more than once. _That's my girl_, he thought hazily.

He felt her hand in his hair after a while and slowly opened his eyes.

"I'm glad it was him and not me," he said.

"You should be," she said, then smiled softly. "They're bringing you fifty milligrams. Is that enough?"

"It's better than twenty-five," he said. "Thank you."

"You shouldn't have to thank me," she said. "I can't believe how poorly this department is run."

"I told you I didn't want to come here," he said. "E.R. docs screw it up for the real doctors about two thirds of the time then act all uppity when we complain. But you've heard my rant on them already."

"We should have gone to James or someone else," she said.

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing that would be for me?" he said.

"It may have been embarrassing," she said, "but at least James would take you seriously."

House grunted in response as the nurse arrived with a syringe.

_Finally_, House thought and rolled on to his back, moving the sheet and gown out of the way. Stacy held his hand, standing next to him, as the nurse swabbed his leg and slowly injected the drug. His grip tightened as his leg started to burn and then relaxed, finally going limp when the nurse withdrew the syringe and taped a piece of cotton down.

His eyes fell shut. "Thank you," he breathed.

The nurse gave Stacy a look and left.

Stacy put the sheet back in place. "Better?" she asked.

"Much better," he said softly. "Thank you."

She smiled at him and stroked his hair, then watched him quietly. He started snoring softly and she smiled again with relief.

* * *

"Greg," he heard her say.

She nudged him and he opened his eyes to see Young standing over him.

"Dr. House," Young said. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," House said sleepily, "thanks."

"Your urine was clean except for the blood, which, based on your other symptoms, points to a urinary tract infection. I'm going to give you a week's worth of amoxicillin. Stay in bed for a few days and drink plenty of clear liquids. Cranberry juice will also help. Follow up with your GP if you're still running a fever in a week, if your urine turns dark red or brown, if the fever spikes, or if you start experiencing pain in your back."

"What about his leg?" Stacy asked.

"Ibuprofen and heat as needed," Young said dismissively. "Bed rest should help it."

"Ibuprofen hasn't helped him," she said. "And he was in bed all day."

House watched them stare at each other until Young finally cracked.

"Okay," he said. "I'm also giving you a few days' worth of T3. Take it instead of Ibuprofen. If it doesn't help or if the pain gets worse, consult your GP."

He wrote out the prescription and handed it to House.

"You're free to go," he said and left, closing the door behind him.

"That guy really hates you," House said. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing I want to repeat," she said and motioned for him to sit up, gathering his clothes.

He got up slowly, dizzy, and let her take the gown off and hand him his shirt. He struggled into it and then carefully into his boxers and sweatpants. He let her strap his sandals on, not sure if he could bend over without falling down right now, and lead him out of the room.

She settled him in to a chair and gave the pharmacist the prescriptions. He had his head tilted back uncomfortably when she sat down next to him and she drew him to her until his head was resting on her shoulder.

She had to wake him up to retrieve his medicine and half-drag him to the car, then wake him up again when they reached the apartment.

"Couch," he mumbled sleepily as she led him through the door.

"Bed rest means bed," she said.

"Couch," he insisted.

"You're barely awake," she said. "You'll be more comfortable in bed."

"Only if you're there with me," he said.

"You can't do anything but fall asleep, tiger," she said. "Besides, you're high."

"I'm not high," he countered, "I'm sincere."

"You're out of your mind," she said and deposited him on the bed.

"Hey, this isn't the couch," he mumbled but sank down anyway.

"Took you a while to figure that out," she teased.

"I want to watch TV," he said sleepily even as he lay back and let her cover him up.

"You're such a baby."

"So?" he countered. "Babies are cute. That makes me cute."

"Grown men who act like babies aren't cute," she said. "I'll be right back. Don't fall asleep yet."

He murmured something indistinct and she went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk and some crackers.

He was snoring lightly when she came back.

She nudged him.

"G'way," he mumbled.

"You have to take this antibiotic," she said.

"Later," he said.

"Now," she insisted.

He didn't move.

"Greg," she said threateningly.

He cursed softly. "I'm tired."

"This'll only take a second."

He groaned and pushed himself up on a shaky elbow. She handed him the pill and the glass of milk. He tossed it back with some milk and tried to lie down again.

"Crackers," she said, "or you'll be sick later."

"Dammit, I'm fine," he muttered but took a few crackers anyway.

He drank the rest of the milk and she brushed the crumbs off of him and let him lie down.

"I'm going to go to the store," she said. "Will you be okay?"

"Sure," he said sleepily. "Go."

She leaned down to kiss his forehead and he smiled slightly, settling in to sleep.

She was half-way across the room when he thought of something.

"Stacy," he said propping himself up. She stopped and turned to him. "Get Haagen Das _and_ Ben and Jerry's."

"You better eat all of it," she teased.

"It'll go straight to my thighs," he said vainly.

"Like it would hurt you," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"Talk to the hand," he said as he lay back down, "cause the face ain't listenin'."

"Lame," she said. "Very lame."

He heard her keys jingle.

"I'll be back soon," she said.

He grunted and settled back down on his right side.

He heard the door close and shut his eyes, warm under the comforter, leg no longer bothering him, and happily fell asleep.


	6. Jack and Jill

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** "Three Stories"  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** Well, it took me long enough, but here's the next chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and all of you who inquired about the state of this fic. :) Oh, and Wilson finally shows up for an intsy-weensy little bit at the end.

A few more notes at the bottom.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Jack and Jill**

He woke slowly, feeling warm, good, and drugged. Sunlight outside, coming through the blinds. Was it still the same day? He glanced at the clock: just past seven. Seven what? P.M.?

The bedroom door was cracked and he could smell something good in the air and faintly hear light jazz. She must be working. Seven p.m. then.

He stretched and cautiously moved his right leg under the covers: back and forth first, then he drew it up so his foot was flat against the mattress. It felt a little funny but it didn't hurt so he yawned, shook his head to clear the fog of sleep, and rolled out of bed.

Getting out of bed at six or seven in the evening felt weird. Was it still Friday? Still the same day he'd been dragged to the E.R.? Had that only been a few hours ago? Weeks had passed, it seemed to him: the event was very far away. He felt fine. Maybe it had been a dream.

He rubbed his face and padded out of the bedroom, pausing at the cracked door of the study.

Her back was to him and she was bent over her desk working intently, notes in a disorganized sprawl on the desktop.

He watched her for a moment with a faint smile on his face. Lucky bastard: she's waiting for you. You and no one else. _You_. Such a lucky bastard.

He tapped on the door. "Busy?"

She jumped and his smile grew broader as he pushed the door open and walked in. The dirty look she gave him for startling her melted into a smile when he bent down to partially embrace her and kiss her cheek from behind.

"Sleep well?" she asked as he pulled back.

"Like a king," he said settling into the brown leather arm chair that had been with him since med school. "Working hard?"

"Hardly working," she said, dropping the pen she'd been holding and turning in her chair to face him. "You look much better."

"I feel great," he said, stretching his arms out and bringing them to rest behind his head, "thanks to poppies and chemists."

She raised an eyebrow: 'is that all?'.

"Okay, okay," he said rolling his eyes. "And thank you for making me go and threatening to cut the doctor's balls off until he doped me up."

She nodded smugly. "Maybe you'll listen next time."

"Watch it," he said pointing an accusatory finger. "My urethra's still sore. No thanks to you."

"Wouldn't it be sore anyway?" she countered.

He glared at her and shook his fist. "One of these days, Stacy, bang, zoom, straight to the moon!"

"_This_ is why you get sued so often," she said.

"I like getting sued," he said. "I'm trying to break the Guinness world record for most lawsuits filed against an individual."

"I like it when you're sued, too," she said. "It's the only time I get to see you in a suit and tie."

He glowered at her but couldn't keep his mouth from curving upward into a smile.

"There's soup in the kitchen," she said as she stood and stretched. "Hungry?"

"I could eat," House said with a shrug and a smile. He yawned as he stood up.

"Go sit on the couch," she said. "I'll bring you a bowl."

He nodded with a grateful smile. "Need to make a quick detour first," he said and flipped a finger in the direction of the bathroom.

She nodded slightly and he followed her out of the study.

She was still in the clothes she'd gone to work in and though he had more immediate needs, he couldn't resist sidling up to her from behind and squeezing her bottom. He ran his hands under her blouse to her stomach, pulling her to him, and up to squeeze her breasts lightly.

"Nicesh assh, Miss Moneypenny," he said into her ear in a bad Sean Connery brogue as he cupped her hips to his. "A man could do things with an assh like that."

She smiled contentedly and ran her hand up his cheek and into his hair.

"Is that all you ever think about?" she asked coyly, half-turned backward toward him.

"I probably shouldn't answer that," he said and kissed her neck lightly.

She reached behind her and ran her hands up his t-shirt.

"You know you tend to miss when you're excited," she said and was pleased with the poke she got in the small of her back in return.

"Shh," he said behind her ear, "he knows you're talking about him."

"Does he know he's being a naughty boy?" she asked. "Not that I don't like it when he's frisky…"

She gyrated her hips against his and smiled at the change in the poke.

"He's never been naughty a day in his life," House breathed.

"But is he making promises he can't keep?"

"Probably," House said, "but he likes to be encouraged nonetheless. All work and no play makes Jack a stiff boy."

"If Jack's still stiff after his dinner, he can play then," she said.

"Jack's impatient," he said.

"Jack needs to pee and eat his dinner."

"Jack wants to fast forward."

"Jack needs his meds."

"Jack's meds can wait."

"Not if Jack knows what's good for him."

"Jack knows what he wants."

"Jack needs to get what he needs first."

"Jack's needs have changed."

She slipped out of his arms and gave him a stern yet playful look that said she was serious.

He had the good sense to look contrite. "Jack wants to know what Jill wants," he said.

"Jill wants him to get better first," she said, running a nail down his cheek, "and then Jill's going to do unspeakable things to him."

House closed his eyes and shuddered.

"Jack wishes Jill wouldn't say things like that when she has no intention of playing with his beanstalk."

"Jack knows what he has to do first," she said with a playful smile. She reached up to pat his cheek. "Go pee," she said and turned toward the kitchen.

"Jack thinks this is very unfair," he called as she walked away.

"Your dick can't think, sweetheart," she called over her shoulder. "It doesn't have a brain."

"Duh," he called back as he walked to the bathroom, erection fading. Narcotics weren't great for the sex drive, he knew, but he'd managed last night…

Flipping the lid up, he smiled at the memory of last night. His smile turned to a scowl at the burn he felt and the color he saw. Still red, damn. A slightly darker red, but if the blood had been sitting in his bladder for a while...

Not a sight he ever wanted to see no matter what shade of rouge it was and he hoped she wouldn't ask about it as he put the seat down and washed his hands. His fever was gone, though, so the antibiotics were helping. He hoped that would be enough to placate her for the night.

He never wanted to have another day like this again. Being vulnerable made him uncomfortable: she'd seen more than anyone should ever have to see in his mind. He put the day behind him as he walked to the living room, not thinking at all about his leg.

He sat down on the couch with a tired sigh and sniffed appreciatively as Stacy set a bowl of soup with French bread on the side and a glass of cranberry juice in front of him.

"Jack all better?" she asked as she sat down next to him.

House pulled a face. "He's cured of his affliction, if that's what you mean," he said.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said running her hand along his back. "Later, if you feel up to it."

He nodded with a small smile, letting the matter go.

"Smells good," he said. "You make it?"

"I did."

"Huh," he said, "didn't know you could make chicken soup."

She shrugged. "You never let me take care of you when you're sick," she said.

He shot her a sideways glare but didn't pursue the topic. She knew how he felt about it. He turned his attention to the soup instead.

"Wow," he said, "that's really good."

She smiled smugly. "You've been missing out."

"Not any more," he grinned and dipped the spoon back into the bowl. "You going to eat?" he asked.

"I had something earlier," she said. "Need anything else?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm good," he said. "Thanks."

"Okay," she said standing, "I'm going to go call Sam about the settlement." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Me too," he said around of a mouthful of soup as she smiled down at him. He saw her hesitate. Dammit, he _hated_ that. "Go call her," he said.

Stacy smiled at him again, turned the stereo off, and went back into the study, cracking the door behind her.

House turned the tv on and flipped around until he found an Animaniacs rerun, happily slurping the soup. Neither of them got to cook too often. Always busy, working late and coming home tired. He'd had no idea whether she could even boil water until she'd been living with him for two weeks. He woke up one morning to find her in one of his shirts making an omelet out of the meager offerings of his refrigerator. It took him a full day to realize that the reason the omelet hadn't consisted of moldy cheese and baking soda was that she'd been buying groceries; his brain hadn't been getting much blood then.

He smiled, watching the cartoon characters wreaking havoc on the Warner Brothers' lot, thinking about how it had almost not happened at all.

Their first date had been the worst date he'd ever been on in his life and that included all of junior high. He hadn't been nervous until he'd seen her: she was so far out of his league...he'd cursed Wilson for setting him up with someone he had no chance with. She was the girl he'd drooled over in high school and never even thought about be lucky enough to talk to much less date. He'd turned into an adolescent right then and there and spent the whole night stepping on his tongue, wondering if he'd somehow sprouted acne, beating himself up every few minutes for saying the wrong things: actually using the lines he knew and coming off a complete jackass, sounding like an arrogant jerk when he talked about work, trying in all the wrong ways to find a common interest, dive-bombing so bad he finally gave up and drank as much as he could before she left so that she got to see his drunken buffoon side too. Perfect night for him. Worse even than the prom when he'd been so excited that he'd secured a date and kept her through the whole dance that he'd come in his pants two minutes into an inept make-out session in the backseat of his car. If he'd kept his mouth shut then she might never have noticed it, but no, he'd been a fool and said something, ending the evening abruptly. He was the same giddy, nervous idiot with Stacy on their first date, only it was worse because even though she'd come off cold and disinterested to him and he knew he'd get an earful from Wilson about how bad a date he was, he was interested. Very interested. Interested enough to get nervous, freeze, and screw it up.

Outside the restaurant while they'd been waiting on a cab, he'd done it: the stupid, drunk thing he shouldn't have done. He'd tried to kiss her. God, what a mistake. But if he hadn't done it, he never would've tried to apologize to her two days later and he never would've seen her smile at the rambling, self-effacing things he was saying and he never would've smiled shyly back and she never would've asked him if he wanted to try the first date thing out again.

Then the second date…it had been the first time he'd ever refused an offer of casual sex. He'd just liked her too much; he wanted more from her than sex. But when she'd asked the next night…well, that had been it. _It_. After that, she'd ended up at his place one night and never really left, her stuff gradually migrating to his apartment, some of his stuff gradually migrating to a storage unit. They'd never looked back.

Lucky bastard. Damn lucky bastard.

He finished the soup and made a face as he drank the entire glass of cranberry juice in one go. Definitely not his favorite beverage, but there was still blood in his urine and it had hurt and he knew what that meant. And she'd bug him if he didn't drink it all.

He contemplated the empty bowl and glass in front of him. He knew he should take them to the sink but that would involve getting up and he wasn't sure he could quite manage that, so instead, belly full, effects of the day beginning to wear on him, he lay down on the couch, got comfortable, and channel surfed. He smiled vaguely when he found Caddyshack on TBS put the remote down.

He was half-asleep, staring stupidly past the tv at the wall when she came out of the study.

"Seconds?" she asked leaning over the back of the couch.

"What?" he asked, blinking heavily. "Oh, umm, no, thanks. It was really good. What did Sam say?"

Stacy shrugged, amused at how tired he looked. "The usual. I won't bore you. Ice cream?"

"Ice cream?" he echoed vacantly. "Oh, ice cream. Sure."

"Haagen Das or Ben and Jerry's?"

"Both," he said. "Do we have sprinkles?"

"Probably," she said.

"Whatever you find, dump it all on there," he said. "Parsley, pepper, paprika, anything." He smiled, order given, and felt himself sinking back into a comfortable stupor.

She smiled and went around the couch to gather up the bowl and glass. "Want to save the soup?" she asked.

He blinked at her. "Save the…? Yeah. It was delicious. Save it."

She gave him a worried look. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he said with a weary smile. "Just tired. Meperidine packs a wallop."

"Meper—?" she said with a confused look.

"Demerol," he said rubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry. It has several names."

"You're sure that's it?" she asked warily. "You said you had some yesterday and you were fine. I certainly couldn't tell…"

Her smile went straight to his groin. The 'later' from earlier was now apparently, but he knew he was done for the night. Inwardly, he glared at his narced-out nether parts. Outwardly, he affected a sleepy calm.

"Long day I guess," he said.

She cast a doubtful look in his direction.

"Really," he said, "I'm okay. I feel fine. Just drowsy."

"If you say so," she said, still dubious.

"I say so," House said smiling. "Seriously—there are reasons people like narcotics so much. Two of them are sedation and euphoria."

She glanced over him, eyebrows raised. He was sprawled out limply on the couch. "I've seen you much more euphoric than that," she said.

"Well, it does wear off," he said sarcastically, but the bite wasn't right and they both knew it.

She glanced over him again, thinking. 'Just tired' seemed to fit. She gave him a departing leer and went to get the ice cream, hoping he'd call her back. When she only heard the television at her back, the worry that had been alleviated earlier when he'd looked so much better and had seemed himself came creeping back. Sick or not, this wasn't like him.

She filled a medium-sized bowl with ice cream, added a generous portion of jimmies, sugar crystals, and dinosaur-shaped sprinkles until the sugar content made her feel vaguely sick, and stuck two spoons in. He liked to scoop as many sprinkles as he could in one spoonful and she liked to eat the regular ice cream under the outer layer of sugar; he'd finish what she didn't eat. She was pleased with the system and he seemed to like it too: there was something about a shared bowl of ice cream that tended to lead to other things. She smiled to herself as she took the bowl to the living room.

"One of these days, you're going to break you teeth on this stuff," she said coming around the couch.

He blinked, almost startled to see her, and slowly sat up, moving his feet to the ground so she could sit next to him.

"Looks good," he said with a tired smile. His attention shifted to the right and he stared past her, mind going blank.

Suddenly the back of her hand was on his forehead, icy cold, and he recoiled instinctively, then realized what she was doing and looked dumbly at her. _She's worried_, he though idly. _Wonder what that's all about._

"You feel warm," she said.

"That's why I need ice cream," he said sleepily and picked up a spoon, digging it into one of the multi-colored mounds. "Nice selection," he noted and shoved the spoon into his mouth.

"Should you be running a fever when you're on antibiotics?" she asked, trying to sound interested in the question itself as a hypothetical construct instead of worried about him.

"Usually takes more than one dose to fight the bacteria and the bacteria cause the fever, so it's okay for now," he said digging another colored spoonful out of the bowl. "And sometimes the antibiotic just doesn't work and you need a different one, but I'd give it twenty-four to thirty-six hours to work before I'd consider switching." He gave her a strange look. "Why are we talking about antibiotics when Caddyshack is on?" A thought moved into place. "Oh," he said, "right." He shook his head. "Sorry. I wasn't kidding about the sedation part earlier. I should've mentioned a third side effect: imbecility."

It didn't work and he saw her look change from worried to frantic.

"No, no, it's okay," he said quickly. "This is how narcotics work. They make you stupid so you don't care about what's going on around you. It can take a while for that effect to wear off." He rubbed his face and smiled. "I'm punch-drunk, too, I'm so tired. Sorry. Really, it's nothing. C'mon. Ice cream's gonna melt."

She stood suddenly and went toward the kitchen.

"Aww, come on, it's okay," he called. "Stace? Really, I'm fine." He heard water running. "What're you doing?" he called. No response. "Ice cream's melting. Come on."

She appeared in front of him with a glass of water and a pill.

"Oh," he said, surprised, "there you are." He scooped up a spoonful of plain chocolate out of the mound he'd been working on and offered it to her. "Ice cream?"

She smiled sadly at him and sat down, putting the water on the table. His eyes expressed a child-like sincerity as he held the spoon out, left hand cupped under it to catch any drops, and she leaned in and let him feed her the ice cream.

"Good?" he asked as though his happiness depended on it.

"Good," she said licking her lips and smiling. He smiled back dazedly and she handed him the pill.

"Take this," she said and picked up the water, "drink this," she gestured at the bowl, "and eat that."

"Bossy tonight," he said as he tossed the pill back and drank half of the water. "Not going to join me?" he asked nodding toward the ice cream.

She picked up the other spoon and scraped a bite that was three-quarters sprinkles, holding it out to him. He eagerly swallowed it, eyes flashing desire for the briefest of moments.

He scooped out another spoonful of plain chocolate and, not taking his eyes off of hers as she waited open-mouthed, offered it. And missed.

"I don't think I'm coordinated enough for this right now," he said mood disappearing as quickly as it had come, spoon clattering to the bowl.

Stacy wiped the trail of ice cream off of her cheek and smiled as she licked her finger. "You're going to eat most of it anyway," she said.

House looked down at the floor, embarrassed, though he wasn't exactly sure why.

"You'd better," she said coaxingly. "I made a special trip for this." She picked up the spoon and gathered sprinkles on it. His gaze flickered up and right back down, morosely.

"Come on," she said, "open up the hanger for the airplane."

His lip quirked upward and he took the spoon from her, putting it in his mouth. He carved sprinkles out of the centermost mound—the only one that hadn't started melting—and ate it.

She watched him, pleased that he was serious about the ice cream. He could be unbelievably sulky sometimes and she was happy to have averted a sulk fest tonight. She'd come on too strong—she knew he was tired—but he'd always liked that. It was a solid guarantee of sex—usually really good sex—and it almost never failed. But he really was tired. And out of it. And feverish. Shouldn't have tried it in the first place. But he'd seemed so much better, what with all that talk earlier…

She glanced down at the bowl: half-empty already. Good. Good. That was good.

"I guess this is the closest we're gonna get to having kids," he said reflectively.

She recoiled, shocked. His wistful tone surprised her more than his words did. Greg? Maudlin? _Greg_?

"I thought you didn't want kids," she said, somewhat bewildered.

"I don't," he answered around a mouthful of ice cream, chasing the remaining sprinkles around the bowl with his spoon.

"Where'd that come from?" she asked.

"Just thinking," he answered, concentrating on the ice cream.

"We're going to have to keep you away from narcotics in the future," she said smiling. "They turn you into an absolute idiot." Her smile softened and she brushed a crooked finger against his cheek. "But a sweet idiot."

"You don't like sweet," he pointed out, "or you wouldn't be within five miles of me."

"I like it in small doses," she said, "as long as it's coated with wit and satire."

"I'm going to start gushing now that you've found my chewy center," he said.

"Turn the lame down a few notches first," she said. "Then gush all you want."

"Oh, I'm going to be Mount Gushmore tonight," he said.

She hit him playfully and he laughed a little, tiredly. He looked so tired.

"Lame," she said picking up the empty bowl and going to the kitchen.

If she had wanted kids…well, that was neither here nor there. Greg was enough of a handful all by himself. And apparently he wasn't immune to the ill male's classic regression to childhood. _Wants his mommy_. And like a mother, she worried. _This is what it must feel like_…

He was sprawled out on the couch again when she returned from washing up the dishes. His eyes were glazed and unfocused but remained trained on the television. He didn't seem to know she was standing right behind the couch.

"Greg," she said to get his attention.

He looked over at her, blinking hard.

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the bedroom, "bed."

"Awww," he whined pitifully, "Caddyshack's on."

"And you've seen that movie how many times?"

"I need to refresh my memory," he said with a tired, stupid smile. "Golf tomorrow; I need to be prepared for any unexpected gopher rendezvous."

"Think you're up for that?" she asked lightly.

"Golf?" he said. "Golf's barely a sport."

"And you barely know your own name right now," she pointed out.

"I just need to sleep a while," he said.

"Hence my earlier proposition of 'bed'," she said.

"After the funny part at the end when he goes after the gopher," House said vaguely, attention back on the television.

"It's TBS," Stacy said. "They'll rerun it ten times this weekend. C'mon. Bed. While you're still awake—you know I can't carry you."

"What's wrong with the couch?" he asked innocently.

"You actually _want_ to sleep on the couch?" she challenged.

He glanced at the tv—the movie had gone to commercial—and back at her, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do.

"Okay," he said, knowing instinctively that he should probably do what she told him to, "okay."

He sat up slowly, blinking hard, and wobbled a little when he made it to his feet.

"I'm okay," he said holding out a hand to stop her when she started to round the couch.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and let her lead him to the bedroom. He didn't like being told what to do like this and he wanted to go back and fall asleep watching the movie, but she was right: he _was_ really tired. And although he didn't mind falling asleep on the couch, he wanted to wake up in bed with her, not alone on the couch.

He winced a little, leg feeling pinched and strange but not painful as he took off the sweat pants and sat down. He was tired enough that he slid under the covers without any further provocation and lay down, feeling comfortable, sleepy, and safe.

He hadn't realized she'd left the room until she came back with another tall glass of cranberry juice and offered him the bottle of T3.

He made a face at the juice. "That stuff's awful by itself," he said.

She shook the pill bottle to get his attention.

He glanced at it. "Demerol hasn't worn off yet," he protested, eyes trying to close of their own volition.

"You want to wait until it does?" she asked.

"I don't want to take anything unless I need it," he said sleepily, slurring the words.

"You were in so much pain," she said. "If you wait until it comes back… Will it be strong enough then?"

"It's got codeine in it," he said with a half-shrug. "Won't matter if it's strong enough."

"So much for keeping you away from narcs," she said smiling. She shook a pill out. "Go ahead and take it," she said. "If it was bad enough last night to wake you up, it might wake you again, so why not head it off?"

He grumbled something about logic and rationality and not liking them, but he took the pill and swallowed it, exaggerating his disgust at the juice.

"I'm going to go finish up my notes," she said when he'd settled down again. "I'll be in in a little while. Don't wait up."

A smile tugged at his mouth and he blinked slowly, eyes following her out of the room, then fixing blankly on the wall.

* * *

Stacy hadn't been seated for five minutes before the phone rang. She hurried to the kitchen to answer it; Greg was such a light sleeper and hated repetitive noises (when he wasn't the cause of them) so much that he'd be out of bed if she didn't get it by the third ring.

She picked up the phone without glancing at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Hi, Stacy, it's James. Is House there?"

"James, hi," she said. "Yes, he is. I'll see if he's awake."

"Awake?" Wilson echoed confusedly. "Oh, I see," he added in a sly, suggestive tone.

"It's not what you're thinking," she said. "I'll let him tell you if he's—hang on."

She pushed the door open. House opened his eyes at the noise and looked sleepily at her.

"Greg," she said holding her hand over the mouthpiece, "it's James. Can you talk?"

He stared blankly ahead for a moment and blinked hard. "Yeah," he said sitting up.

"Here he is, James," she said crossing the room and handing the phone to him. "Go easy on him."

"Hey, buddy, what's up?" House said tiredly, propping himself up with his right elbow.

"Nate called me," Wilson said. "He said you ditched him the other day on the course. I thought he was just being a prick but you didn't come to work today. You okay?"

"Yeah," House said, glancing up at Stacy who was watching him, "picked up a UTI and pulled a muscle. Not in that order."

"So you—a UTI? that's weird—can you play tomorrow?"

"I don't know," he said. "My leg's all screwy."

"You're not just faking cause you know I'll kick your ass, are you?" Wilson said. "Please tell me Nate wasn't right."

"I wish," House said with a tired sigh.

He heard Wilson's dubious look over the phone. "Let me talk to Stacy again."

Stacy had never left his side, a disapproving smile on her face as she took the phone.

"He can't come out and play tomorrow, James, I'm sorry," she said in a motherly sing-song and indicated to House that she was going to talk to Wilson in another room.

He smiled at her as she left and lay back down.

"He's really sick?" Wilson asked, slightly anxious. House never got sick.

"I had to take him to the E.R.," she said.

"Geez," Wilson said, "he sounded okay…"

"He's better now," she said. "I can't _believe _some of the morons McAllister hires," she said angrily. She caught herself: "Nevermind," she said. "I've heard you two discuss that often enough. They gave him antibiotics and sent him home, but I don't know… He looked okay an hour ago and he's been in bed all day—" she stopped with a snort, "well, he _says_ he's been in bed all day…"

"But when does Greg ever do what he says he'd do," Wilson stumbled on the mechanics of the sentence, "or did," he finished with a good-natured laugh. "Okay, okay." He paused. "But he did sound a little off."

She was suddenly serious, her voice dropping. "I'm worried about him," she said. "I've never seen him this sick before. He looked awful when I got home this morning and he's been really out of it for the past hour."

"Give the antibiotics a chance to work," Wilson said reassuringly. "A UTI can make you feel pretty low."

"That's what he said."

"He's right," Wilson said. "Sometimes it takes a little while for them to start working, and he may need a different one. If he doesn't start improving by Sunday, take him back in."

"All right, I will," she said feeling better. Wilson had known Greg much longer than she had and he didn't sound too worried. "Thanks," she said. "I doubt he'll be able to play tomorrow, though. His leg was really bothering him earlier."

"He said it was a pulled muscle," Wilson said.

"That's not quite the whole story," she said. "It seemed to hurt more than that. They gave him Demerol."

"Wow," Wilson said. "Okay, _that's_ why he's out of it. But if it was that bad, he probably shouldn't play. We'll reschedule. No problem."

"Do you think he's okay?" she asked worriedly.

"Does he think he's okay?" Wilson said. "He'd know better than anyone."

"He thinks he can play with you guys tomorrow," she said. "He's not right about that."

"Give him a break," Wilson said. "Once the Demerol wears off, he'll be fine."

"He said that, too," she said smiling.

"He knows what he's doing," Wilson said. "Give him hell for me about the match."

"I will," she said and they hung up.

Her smile widened at Wilson's ease as she put the phone down. He was a great barometer for managing Greg. He was also mature enough not to take sides when they had a big fight, even though she knew Greg went immediately to him: he was still always willing to listen to her side of the story. She appreciated that just like she appreciated him now, telling her whether Greg was okay or not.

She gathered up her notes enough that she'd be able to organize them quickly tomorrow morning. By the time she made it to bed, book in hand, House was fast asleep, not stirring at all when she reached over to brush his hair lightly. She smiled, putting the book aside, and turned off the light, cuddling up next to him.

* * *

A/N con't

Thanks to everyone for the reviews – they're great motivators. A few specifics:

liz – Thanks for the compliments. :) It was sort of strange that Wilson didn't appear in the flashbacks, but I suppose they were trying to keep the focus on House and Stacy's relationship since they had the finale on deck.

Re: the color of the urine. If the E.R. doc had noticed it was brownish, he (one would hope) would've run more tests and the 'four day blockage' never would've happened. House can't notice it too early, either, or we'd have the same problem. It's very weird that the apparently renowned diagnostician can't figure his own case out for four days – I'm trying my best to come up with plausible explanations for the time lapse. :)

Re: House's specialty. He has a dual specialty in diagnostics and nephrology. The nephro part we learn about in Maternity I think (not 100 percent on the particular episode, but he does have a nephro specialty).

TEKnoir – Thanks! I really appreciate what you said. About Cameron…she's the character I understand the least and for a good while I didn't really like her, but I've been working on two scenes that focus on her for another of my fics lately. It's a peripheral interest, like you said. Thanks for saying it; I hadn't planned to do anything with Cam in that fic until I read your comments and now I've got several pages written. :) Also, thanks re: the original-ish characters. Ideally, they should be foils or reflections of the main characters – just there enough to exist and influence the plot but not there enough to steal the show. Thanks again for your review!


	7. Water Water Everywhere

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** I got a little carried away and had some fun with stream of consciousness and free association in this chapter. I hope it isn't too hard to follow. The point of it is to show how messed up House's thinking has become; it seemed like the best way to do that was to actually write the thinking itself. It's a technique I plan to pick up later, too, in small amounts. Just to explain. :)

Thanks for the reviews everyone! Some specifics. Re: Young. Hadn't planned to have him return but now I'm thinking about it. Thanks. :) Re: switching perspective mid-scene. Good point. It does weaken the writing, I agree. However, I feel like this thing's drawn out enough as it is and I want to get it finished within a reasonable time-frame, so I don't plan to go back and change what's already done. Your criticism has made me watch out for it, though, and pay more attention to POV than I had been paying—thank you for that. I really appreciate constructive criticism. :)

* * *

**Chapter Six: Water Water Everywhere**

Past midnight.

_Awake. Sleepy. Have to pee. Don't wanna move. Comfy. Warm. Her next to me. Soft. Nice smell. Would like to…no. Can't. Have to pee. Damn. Don't want to. But have to. Damn._

He hauled himself up, wincing, leg hurting and feeling heavy. He shook his head, dizzy and light-headed, and made a face, rubbing his stomach.

_Codeine. Side effects. Ugh._

He stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light.

_Ouch. Damn, ouch. Ow, jeez. Still sore. Still red. A bit darker than it should be maybe. But consistent with…? Could be a kidney problem instead…wouldn't explain the fever though. But no fever now. Antibiotics must be working. Oh, and the acetaminophen. Duh. Slow tonight. Tired. Still, discolored. Something's not right. Feel like dog food. But still soon. Give it time. Ugh, damn codeine. Not kidding about nausea. Lay down, will help. Stupid muscle, hurts. _

He washed his hands, turned off the light, and made his way back to the bed, limping slightly. He fought a groan and cursed codeine again as he lay down, hand on his stomach. He'd never taken T3 before and he rarely prescribed it for pain. His view on pain was that if it was bad enough that the patient needed a narcotic analgesic, the patient needed something stronger than the acetaminophen level in T3 and a less potentially addicting narcotic than codeine. It depended greatly on what was going on with the patient, though.

_Thought I was a druggy. Why dispense T3 then? Codeine very addictive, morphine derivative. Missed the fun part, fell asleep first. Straight to the unpleasant side effects. Leg, damn. Leg still hurts. Damn. Agh, really hurts. But no, I can hold out. Don't need to take more. Still so sleepy, can fall asleep. Try not to think about anything. Think about nothing. Nothing. She's so warm there next to me, so nice. Really want to… No. Nothing. Nothing. Sleep. Sleep. Think of nothing. Sleep._

He curled on his side, feeling much better now that he was horizontal.

_Side effects of codeine more prevalent in ambulatory patients than non-ambulatory patients… Lie down, feel better. And sleep. Sleep. Sleep. So tired. Sleep._

He clenched his teeth and dug his right hand into his thigh. It really, really hurt but he didn't want to take anything if he didn't need it. And he didn't need it. He didn't. He could do this.

_Tough it out, tough it out. Walk it off. Ha. No, okay, obviously not. Can tough it out, though. Can do this. Can make it. Just sleep. Relax. Think of nothing. Sleep. So soft…mmm…light breathing…smells so good…in the morning maybe…if I can just sleep a little first, feel better then. Have all weekend to. Golf tomorrow. Nate. Bastard. But Wilson'll be there. Can cancel if we… Would be nice. All day here. Just getting up for food. Haven't done that in nearly a month. Did he call earlier? Seems like maybe…remember something about that. Whatever. Need a Saturday of it. Deserves it. She does. Me. Want it. She seemed to, tonight, with the ice cream. Was so messed up. Why? Just so tired. Still so tired. If I can just sleep a little, just a little. God. Shouldn't hurt like this. Agh, fuck me. Not going away. Can't sleep. Think of nothing, think of nothing, nothing. Just… Ahhhg, hurts. Really fucking hurts._

He lay still, face pinched, breathing quickly for ten minutes before he gave in and turned on the light.

He heard her breathe in suddenly next to him as he popped the cap off the T3.

"Greg?" he heard her ask sleepily behind his back. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said glancing over his shoulder at her. He held up the pill. "You were right." He smiled ruefully and swallowed it, making a face at the room temperature cranberry juice.

"You okay?" she asked propping herself up on her elbow.

"Yeah," he said, turning to her. "Sorry I woke you up."

"No, no," she said. "Is it bad?"

"No," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmm, okay," she said sleepily.

He snapped the light off and lay back down on his side, hoping it would kick in quickly. He smiled through the pain when he felt her spoon up against him and drape a hand over his chest.

_So nice, warm, strong hand, God I love… want to… shit, no, can't, damn leg, Jesus, shouldn't be like this… something not… but God so good her breath right there back of the neck, really want to but really hurts not right something's not… better in the morning, she'll still be there, Saturday, all day to… definitely skip golf if… need it, both of us, God really want it… really really… leg just…shit…can't be right…muscles don't…not even infection, though could be, but from the injection the other day? not right, can't be it…but could be, pain a funny thing, hard to diagnose by itself…if it would just go away so I can think… better in the morning, sleep first, better… so warm behind me, sharp elbow under my arm, against the ribs, Jesus Christ so lucky, don't screw it up…didn't have to with the juice, though, stuff is so awful, why'd he have to say it even if he is right… don't care, rather drink gallons of water, should be doing that, flush out the infection, how'd I get a UTI at all…better maybe not to, though, with it…though we've got condoms around here somewhere, surely we do, or can go buy some…something that should really be delivered, nothing worse than being ready to go and no rubbers…better to answer the door with a hard-on than drive with one, real hazard, worse almost than being drunk…damn leg, should not hurt like this, shouldn't need T3, shouldn't need more than ibuprofen if it's just muscular…referred pain could be but where from? any number of places, still feels…weird…sharp? dull? constant? intermittent? radiating? throbbing? all the other questions…hard to say…quad such a large group…which individual muscle, don't even know that…touch them each carefully…nothing…pressure doesn't seem to make a difference…must be leaving nail marks in the skin, yes, can feel those, really hurts unbelievable…could always be related to the infection, weird that they strike at the same time…infection most likely suspect with fever, would've run more tests if it'd been me, imaging studies, though God I really didn't want to stay there a second longer…probably would've kicked the guy out no questions asked if he'd showed up and stuck himself like I did, wouldn't have listened at all after what I did Thursday, came off the wrong way, but shit they wouldn't listen, never felt anything like it before, holy…there it goes…sweet…so sweet…can sleep now…sleep…sleep…warm…sleep._

* * *

Almost five a.m. She'd rolled away from him at some point and he was curled on the edge of the bed, the bedclothes pulled around him.

_Ohhhhhhhhcraaaap. Codeine, unreal. Ridiculous. Can't be right, this can't be right. Should not hurt like this. Something's really…really…re…al…ly…not…some…thing…not…right…reaaaaaaalllyyyymessed up. Cold…really cold…but no…no something…no what?...something important…really messed up…damn codeine, can't think straight…slept through the high again…did I sleep?...probably, don't remember…but too tired to have slept…something not right…it's really cold in here…really tired…what woke me up?...she?...no…she's asleep can hear her breathe, soft, good there next to me…would be nice if she…over here again…so warm next to me, nice…really cold…not right, not right, something not right…wasn't she?...woke up earlier?...or was that yesterday?...didn't she, against me? nice, spooning?...not anymore, she's over there…really cold, tired, can't think…something…what was it?...why am I awake? so tired…makes no sense…kind of sore, maybe my back? did something to it?_

He rolled on to his back and a flash of pain hit him.

_Leg, leg, the leg, that's it, holy crap that hurts…codeine for that…time for another dose? don't know, don't care, really hurts. _

He turned back on to his right side and fumbled in the dark at the nightstand, nearly knocking the juice over before he found the pill bottle. Hands shaking, he got it open and picked one out, working up the saliva to swallow it. No more lukewarm cranberry juice.

_Cranberry juice…disgusting…taste of T3, acrid, gross…cranberry juice? why? why?...seems significant…ohhhh, that, UTI…so, cold…but no…what was it? come on, remember…seems like an easy one…goes with the UTI…what…can't think…was it?...ohhh, yes, fever, that was it, no fever, no, don't feel like I have fever, just spaced, really spaced…from the…the…the…codeine, yeah…really really spaced…can't think…just go to sleep instead…so tired, sleep, sleep. _

* * *

Past six. Purple dawn light was peaking through the window. The furniture in the room was clearly outlined and he was beginning to make out the color of clothes on the floor. Half-empty glass of dark juice next to him on the table, like blood.

_An hour already?...feels like it…couldn't see anything when I woke up earlier…only an hour though?...did I sleep?...feel like I did, but still tired…maybe not though…oh yes was five o'clock, past six now, so only an hour…but God it hurts, need more, not working, hurts…shouldn't take anymore, not yet…already so spaced…but…really hurts…can't take more, shouldn't…tough it out tough it out can do this can do this…just…really tired…too tired to sleep…_

Suddenly he felt her moving, stirring, waking. Then her hands on his back, trying carefully to wake him up.

"Hey," she said softly, voice full of sleep, "you awake?"

"Not really," he mumbled into his pillow.

Her body next to his, a hand running down his arm.

"Okay?" she asked tentatively, noting his rigid posture.

"Tired," he said, voice muffled by the pillow.

Her hand rested on his arm.

"I'm going to go in for a few hours if that's okay," she said. "I'll try to be back by noon. Need anything?"

"Just to sleep," he sighed, wishing she'd go away and leave him alone.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said tiredly, "go. I'm fine. Just tired. Go."

Her hand squeezed his arm quickly, affectionately, and then her fingers running up his arm and into his hair briefly, almost patting him on the head, before he felt her roll over and the weight on the mattress redistribute when she got up.

He heard her get into the shower and knocked back another pill. He needed to sleep.

He listened to the shower run, faintly smelling soap and shampoo, good, clean smells, and then the squeal of the pipes when she turned it off. He heard her moving around, getting dressed, in and out of the bedroom, the smell of coffee, comforting domestic morning sounds all around him before he fell asleep again.

Stacy exchanged the half-drunk glass of cranberry juice on the night table with a fresh glass of water before she left, somewhat amazed that he'd slept through her getting dressed. He'd always been such a light sleeper. He looked okay, though. Just tired.

All the same, as she paused at the bedroom door, glancing back at his sleeping form, she thought she might call him later when they took a break to make sure he was okay. He wouldn't like it…but maybe she'd do it anyway, she thought as she let herself out and locked the door quietly behind her.

* * *

Siren racing past outside.

_Whazaa?...hhhhmphmm…ohh man, soooooo screwed up…soooooo…screweddddddd…uppppppp…what?...light outside, day…still in bed…why?...something…something…feels important…haven't been this spaced since that time in college…feeeeeel gooooooood though…like then…but gooooooooder…no, betttterrrr…errrrrerrrrrerrrr…heh, funny noise…whaz?...day, right, day, yeah…day?...still…just…a little…weird…day outside…me, bed, inside…feel dirty, need a shower…shower would be nice…hot shower…cold in here…day…day…day…why…in bed…day?...whysospaced?...and gooooood…what makes goooooood?...don't think she's here but screw it not going to move to check feel too goooood…different kind of gooooood…sort of…similar…but not…if she's here she'll let me know…way too gooood to move, not gonna move, nope…not…gonna…move…noooooo…zzzzzzz…_

Two hours later, another siren, but he was already half-awake.

_Owww owww owww, leg really hurts, why?...seems like there was a reason…can't…don't…remember…but shit it hurts…wasn't there…something…about Empirin?...no, no, Empirin's a cough med, not coughing, was I coughing? don't think so…Empirin, no, not Empirin, something else…ohh yes codeine yes T3 yes bottle of it yes somewhere yes there it is yes…_

He clumsily reached for the bottle and knocked the glass of water over in the process.

_Shit shit uncoordinated shit, water, supposed to be drinking water, lots of it…water water everywhere not a drop to drink…who was that?...nursery rhyme…no, before that…Keats?...no, not Keats…albatross guy…laudanum guy…what was his name…Samuel Taylor blank…Zachary Taylor?...no, president…twelfth president…not him…albatross guy…with the ancient mariner…kind of like Grand Marnier, wouldn't mind a drop of that right now…Samuel Taylor something…wouldn't mind a drop of laudanum right now either…but what? was thinking something before that, seemed important, something…can't recall…ohh, ohhh, water, glass, klutz knocked the glass over, water, supposed to be drinking lots of water…should get up and get more and drink…but…so tired, so nice, so comfortable, don't wanna move…but…supposed to…know it was important but can't think of why…maybe she?...should do it anyway…get in trouble means no sex…or maybe, get in trouble means no sex then make up then make-up sex and make-up sex is always really good…so…I…should get up?...would that be a fight?...or I shouldn't get up?...shit, don't remember…kinda thirsty, though…water, yes, that's right, water, want some water…water water everywhere not a drop to drink._

* * *

"Greg?" she called from the doorway as she put her purse and briefcase down.

She shut and locked the door behind her and stepped out of the foyer into the living room.

Empty couch. Television off. Nothing out of place to suggest he'd been up. A quick glance at the kitchen revealed the only sign that he'd been out of bed at all: the cabinet where they kept drinking glasses was ajar.

She frowned as she walked quickly toward the bedroom.

"Greg?" she called again.

No answer.

_Dammit, should've called him. Should've called him. Dammit. Dammit! His stubborn pride! Sometimes I could just— It's past two and he's hardly even moved from the look of things. Not like him at all. Dammit!_

"Greg?" she said softly, going into the bed room. There he was, exactly as she had left him this morning.

Nothing.

Just as she was going to turn away, having established that he was sleeping, he stirred, blinking and looking up at her.

She smiled down sympathetically at him. He looked so tired still, curled up under the covers.

"Hey," he said with a sleepy smile, left hand going up to rub his face, then settling on the comforter, "you're back. How was it?"

"Work," she said. "The usual. Nothing I couldn't have missed. I should've stayed. You look horrible."

"Thanks," he said sarcastically.

"Have you moved at all?" she asked, trying to conceal her worry.

"I got up a few times," he said nonchalantly. "This codeine seems to knock me out."

"It still hurts?" she asked. That didn't seem right.

"It's not bad," he said.

"Liar," she accused.

"Am not," he countered defensively while turning on to this back. He failed to totally suppress a wince. She saw him.

"Are to," she sneered, worried but always willing to play childish games with him. "Or you wouldn't be taking anything for it."

"It really isn't that bad," he said sincerely. "Codeine can pack a punch just like Demerol. Any narcotic. Besides, I'm actually doing what I should be doing, following orders for once, and you're complaining?"

"I'm just worried," she said with a sigh.

"Don't be," he assured. "I'll be fine by tomorrow. Monday at the latest."

"Okay," she said. She wasn't convinced but she didn't want to push him. "How's your pee?"

"Nothing to be proud of," he replied, scrunching his nose at the thought. "Ugly."

"Still?" she asked. "That doesn't seem right. Is it darker?"

"No, doctor, it's not," he said sarcastically.

She gave him a reproachful look.

"I didn't see the first sample," he said with a shrug. "It hasn't changed color as far as I can tell. A little darker than the average blood-in-urine color but everyone's different. It fits with my long history of multi-colored piss." He rolled his eyes.

She didn't look convinced.

"Really," he said, "it's fine. It'll be gone by tomorrow."

She gave him one last stern glare before letting up, face softening into a small smile. "Did you eat?"

"Not hungry," he said.

The reproachful look returned. "Greg—"

"It's a side effect of codeine," he said defensively, "and most antibiotics."

"You need to eat," she pressed. "You're going to eat."

"Yes, ma'am," he said like a lazy soldier snapping reluctantly to attention.

"I'm serious," she said at his mocking tone.

"So am I," he said. They both knew he wasn't.

"This isn't going to be a fight," she warned.

"Not unless it has to be," he countered.

"I'm not going to fight with you while you're sick," she said rolling her eyes. "Not while you have an excuse for losing." She smiled to emphasize the play she intended.

"That'd be the only reason you'd win," he mumbled.

She glowered at him. "No fighting until you can hold up your end of the make-up sex," she said with a wink.

"That sounds like a challenge," he said, brightening at the thought. "Let's skip the fight and go straight to the make-up sex. I'm in favor of that."

"Only if you eat," she said.

"Stop that or it'll be like screwing my mother," he groused. "I _like_ my eyes. I don't want to have to gouge them out."

"Greg…" she said warningly.

"Okay, okay," he relented. "Go warm something up." He paused. "But if I'm asleep when you come back, let me sleep. Sleep is more important than food right now."

She gave him a hard look and went to the kitchen to warm up some soup.

* * *

Predictably, he was asleep when she returned. She stood over him for a moment, holding the hot bowl of soup, trying to determine if he was faking or not. She knew how good he was at deception—he practiced it all the time at work—but as far as she could tell, he'd never hidden anything big from her. Small things like this, though, he would do if he wanted to be left alone or was trying to prove some ridiculous point.

She put the bowl of soup down on the table next to him and went to the closet to change into something more comfortable. Jeans and a knit top would do. She undressed slowly, back turned to him, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist a look if he wasn't asleep.

When she turned around again, pulling the top on, she saw how relaxed his face was. No way he could've reset it that quickly. She stepped closer and whispered his name. All she got in response was the deep, heavy breathing of sleep.

He really was out.

She hadn't expected that.

She gathered up the soup and the empty glass from last night and left quietly.

* * *

Stacy hefted a file out of her briefcase on to the desk. Her workload never let up and the end of one case meant the beginning of another.

She'd brought the file home with a degree of hesitation, but her reasoning was that if he was sick, then he was sick and he wanted to be left alone, and if he was better, he'd probably want to do work himself. He was always writing articles; he always had work of some kind stashed away at home for a weekend. They worked best together when they were both working—together, physically, in the same room, but apart. He got bored quickly and she did too, though not as quickly as he did, and work was simply easier than anything else. Then they'd go out or stay in or whatever and it wouldn't be about work—most evenings weren't about work, though they were often filled up work, one of the two of them having to stay late at the office or take work home—but the hours before and after noon needed filling and work was always there, always waiting.

She opened the file and tried to concentrate.

_Should've called him_, she thought, kicking herself. _Really should've called him_.

But he was probably right. Even if he looked like hell and wasn't moving. He was probably right. He'd be fine tomorrow. Sleep was good for him now. Yes. He'd be fine.

She bent over the file, able to concentrate now, and began reading.

* * *

_Can't have to pee again, I just fell asleep…_

He sighed and pushed himself up.

The apartment was quiet enough that the dull thudding of his feet on the floor took her out of the file she'd been engrossed in and brought her back to reality. She glanced at her watch—no, it couldn't be that late. She hastily put the file down and scrambled up just in time to hear the bathroom door close.

"Hey," she said when he emerged.

He blinked heavily, momentarily confused before he recognized her and smiled tiredly, leaning on the door frame. "Hey," he said.

She patted the couch. "How about a change of scenery?"

"Sure," he said. "I'm not great company right now, though." He closed the distance between the bathroom and the couch with a noticeable limp. "Can barely string two thoughts together."

He lay down immediately and she raised a concerned eyebrow.

"Codeine," he explained. "Side effects. Much better when you lie down. Anything that isn't walking."

"How about sitting?" she asked.

"Think I might fall over," he said tiredly. "Head's swimming like crazy. Told you I wasn't the best company. Not good for anything but lying here."

"How's your leg?"

"It's okay," he said. "Doesn't hurt much. Feels kind of heavy and tingly."

"You were limping," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he said. "It's heavy."

"What does heavy mean?" she questioned.

"Probably that I slept on it all day and all night and it needs to wake up from that," he said. "Kind of like having your foot fall asleep for hours and hours. Gonna feel weird until the circulation's right again."

She still looked worried. Unconvinced.

He propped himself up on his elbows. "Come on," he said. "I know what I'm talking about. It's okay. I just—" he blinked and shook his head at a sudden rush of dizziness, bringing a hand up to rub his face "—told you my head's messed up—need to take it easy for a while." He lay back down. "Did you warm something up earlier? I'm sorry I fell asleep. Hungry now if the offer hasn't expired." He smiled weakly.

"Of course it hasn't," she said with a warm smile. "Soup from last night sound good?"

"Sounds great," he said smiling back.

She smiled and handed him the remote. "Bet you five bucks Caddyshack's on again."

"No way," he said, "you had all afternoon to sneak a peak at the cable guide. I'm not taking that bet."

"Whatever," she said rolling her eyes and went to the kitchen to re-heat the bowl she'd stowed in the fridge earlier, happy that he seemed better. It was really frightening, seeing him so sick.

She heard him turn the television on and channel surf.

"You were right," he called from the couch. "It's on."

"Good thing you didn't take the bet," she called back as she placed the bowl in the microwave, "or you'd have to pay up."

She set the timer and went back to the living room.

He glanced up as she settled on the arm of the couch at his feet, then back at the television.

"Yeah," he said.

She ran a nail lightly along his left foot. "We got a new case today," she said.

He glanced up again, "Yeah?", then back to the television.

"You'd love it," she said stroking his foot, "Typical. Guy comes to the E.R. with infected hemorrhoids—"

"Gross," House interjected. "I'm glad that's not a typical case for me."

"Shut up," she said and tickled his foot. He jerked it away but couldn't help giggling. "So he was treated and sent home—"

"Did he get an ass donut?" he asked. "That's what I wanna know."

She playfully smacked his feet. "Stop interrupting," she admonished. "He came back the next day with a rash—"

"Was the rash on his ass?" House asked.

"Stop it," she said through gritted teeth, smiling, and squeezed his foot lightly.

He glanced up at her and wagged his eyebrows, then back to the tv.

"You're such a child," she said. "You want to hear the story or not?"

"Okay, okay," House relented, "continue. Guy has a rash that may or may not be in a delicate area and he may or may not have brought his ass ring with him."

She glared at him silently.

When she didn't start talking again, he glanced at her. "Go on," he said, "I'm listening."

The microwave beeped and she got up.

"This conversation isn't over," he called after her.

"I liked you better when you were comatose," she called, taking the bowl out of the microwave and grabbing a spoon.

"If you don't tell me what happened to Ass Donut Guy I'll never be able to sleep again," he declared.

"Are you going to keep your comments to yourself until the story's over?" she asked in a condescending tone as if he were a five year old, placing the soup on the coffee table in front of him.

"And if I don't?" he asked, not moving to get up. "Will you take away my finger-paints and spank me for being a bad boy?"

"I'm going to spank you right now if you don't sit up and eat this," she said.

"Maybe I want to be spanked," he said with a contrary look.

"In that case, I'll take away your finger-paints and send you to your room," she said in a half-purr. "No dessert, no tv."

"One of those things is threatening enough to get me to move," he said, slowly pushing himself up, "but I'm not telling which one."

"I think I know which one it is," she said coyly. "You're miserable without your finger-paints."

He snorted a laugh then paused. "Ugh," he groaned, stopping on his right elbow and rubbing his face with his left hand, "I am never taking that crap again."

"Not getting you high enough?" she teased. "Need to go back for another hit of the good stuff?"

"You could be my sugar mamma and bring it home for me," he said, trying again and making it all the way up this time. "I always wanted to be a kept man."

"You'd need at least three or four keepers," she pointed out.

"I offer competitive wages," he said proudly.

"I think you're missing the point," she said sitting down next to him.

"Oh what-ever," he said and bent over the soup.

After a few spoonfuls and the requisite appreciative noises, he said, "So what happened with Ass Rash Guy?"

She gave him a look.

"I swear I'll be good this time," he said and held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout," she said rolling her eyes.

"Was so," he said around a mouthful.

"Maybe the 'come to my treehouse after school and I'll show you my badges' type, but not a real boy scout," she said.

"Oh no, I was a real boy scout. The camping, canoeing, helping old ladies across the street type," he said. "Seriously. There was this kid we called Stumpy and one year he—"

"Okay, okay," she said, wary of another of his lecherous yarns. "Ass Rash Guy—heh, try saying that three times fast." He glanced at her and she saw him thinking about it. "Don't," she said, "or no story."

He pouted. "Better be a good story," he mumbled.

She gave him a hard look, but continued. "Treated the rash and sent him home again," she said. "He comes back again two days later saying he's had trouble breathing since they treated the hemorrhoids. They diagnose him with asthma and—"

"Latex allergy," House interrupted, mouth full of soup.

She smacked his arm. "Spoil the ending," she mumbled.

He swallowed the soup and raised his eyebrows in question, wanting his diagnosis confirmed.

"Yes," she said rolling her eyes, "you're right. Latex allergy. He's suing the hospital claiming he wasn't correctly informed about latex allergies and should've been given the option of having his doctor wear non-latex gloves."

"There's nothing like the smell of frivolity in the morning," he said. "Almost as invigorating as bullshit."

She shrugged. "He's got a case," she said.

"Negotiating the settlement?" he asked.

"Reading the preliminaries is more like it," she said with a laugh. "I just got this case today."

He stopped eating and tilted his head to the side, pondering something.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh no," she said, "not another lecture." She flopped back on the couch in mock annoyance. He sat still, slightly forward, quiet, not touching the bowl.

"That's not it," he said vaguely, as though he were far away from their living room.

"You've got that pontificating look on your face," she pouted. "I can see it through the back of your head."

But she was smiling to herself. He was thinking—he was lost in the place he went when he was deep in thought—and that meant he was okay. Thank God. She might tease him but she was so relieved she'd listen to him lecture all day. She trailed a finger up his spine.

"You love talking so much," she said. "You should teach."

He snorted a laugh. "Students are so much worse than patients," he said. "My residency was a nightmare. Interns and students everywhere, wanting their hands held, thinking it was part of my job to listen to them. I won't be arrested for drugging a patient, but a student…" He shook his head. "No way. But I don't think it's just latex."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed triumphantly, sitting up.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "If you know it, tell me what it is."

"Probably something so far out in left field it bounced off the foul pole," she teased.

"Hey," he said with a shrug, "this could save you time and the hospital money, but if you're going to insult me, I won't even—"

She smacked him lightly with a pillow and he laughed. "You are so irritating!" she said, mock-angry.

"Hit me again and I'm calling the cops," he said hysterically. "Domestic violence is domestic violence, no matter what. I'll scream!"

She ignored him. "Hmm, let's see," she said musingly. "You were extra quiet, so it's a good one. Nothing to do with his alleged ass donut, so—"

"Betcha his proctologist wears latex gloves," House interrupted.

"Betcha he doesn't have a proctologist," Stacy shot back. "Don't interrupt when I'm making fun of you."

"Yessum," he said. "But you're not even warm. So not even close to being warm. You need a parka you're so cold."

She gazed intently at him. "You don't even have a theory, do you?" she said.

"I'll never tell," he said mysteriously, "now that you've insulted my pride."

"You don't have a clue," she said with a devious grin. "You've got nothing at all."

"Baiting me into revealing my secrets?" he said. "That is _so_ last year."

She smiled smugly. "I know you," she said. "You wouldn't be able to shut up if you actually had something."

"Well," he said haughtily as he picked up the soup spoon again, "I guess you'll never know."

"I feel very deprived right now," she said. "I may cry."

Hose ignored her. "How old is he?" he asked. "I'm assuming he filed this himself, so he's not a kid."

"No, not a child," she said. "Can't say the same for you, though."

"I'm wounded," he said with a sidelong eye roll. "It's fairly rare that an allergy would develop so suddenly in an adult—especially an allergy severe enough to cause asthma. Skin rash maybe but not asthma. Seriously, how old is he?"

"Seriously?" she said mockingly.

He glanced at her again, sidelong. "Hey," he said, "you asked for it. Call me intrigued."

She sighed. "You can't just solve your cases," she grumbled to herself, "you've got to solve mine too." She remained secretly pleased. "Okay," she said, "he's fifty-two."

House ignored the barb. "Otherwise good health?" he asked.

"Medical history's clean aside from a cholesterol problem that's been treated successfully with diet and exercise," she answered.

"Fifty-two year olds don't just develop latex allergies out of nowhere," House said.

"We know," she said with a sigh. "Our medical consultant—and we do have one, I assure you—says that it's rare but possible."

House shook his head. "Doesn't fit."

"You've got a better explanation?" she challenged.

He stirred the soup idly with the spoon, thinking.

That was it. Now she'd lost him to the hunt.

"Oh God," she groaned, "I wasn't serious." She nudged him. "Come on, Doctor Einstein, give it a rest. No one likes cold soup."

He wasn't listening. "What time of year did this happen?" he asked vaguely.

"Greg," she admonished, "don't bring your work home like this."

He glanced quickly at her but he didn't have to: she'd already realized it.

"Dumb thing to say," she said holding her hands up, "I know."

His upper lip twitched but he said nothing, still thinking.

"Okay," she said. "It was in the fall. I'd have to get the file to see for sure, but I think October or November. Last year."

"And you're just now getting it?" he said.

She shrugged. "He claims that it got worse in April. Bad enough to keep him from going to work."

"April?" House echoed vaguely, unconsciously scratching his chin. "Was he checked for other allergies?"

"Duh," she said rolling her eyes. "Came up clear."

"When was the test?" he asked, running through ideas in his head.

"January I think," she said. "I'd have to check to make sure."

"Did they test him again after it got worse?" he asked.

"Will you stop grilling me," she said, nudging him in the ribs. "I'm not one of your patients."

"Stop that," he giggled, "tickles. Trying to eat here."

"Would you rather I stuffed a sock in your mouth?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

He ignored her. "Find out if they tested him again," he said.

"And?" she said expectantly. "I played the game, now you tell me what you think it is."

"I'm not sure," he dodged.

"So?" she said. "What's stopping you? You love talking about your theories. Spill it."

"Avocados," he said mysteriously and picked up the spoon again.

"Avocados," she repeated dully. She'd hoped for something a little more interesting than avocados.

He nodded, eating the soup.

"Okay, the little light didn't go off in my head," she said. "You're going to have to explain it. Bear with the rest of us mortals as we stumble blindly along in your shadow."

He rolled his eyes. "Latex allergies can trigger food allergies—to avocados, bananas, chestnuts, other things. The avocado is the most likely culprit statistically and it's part of a heart-healthy cholesterol-lowering diet."

"And they wouldn't be nice and ripe until about April," she said, following the course of his logic. "I see."

She gazed at him for a moment, taking him in.

"You're making a leap," she said. "Trusting the guy to stick to his diet."

House shrugged. "He could be digging into guac with bacon-fried corn chips for all I know. Guac would do the job."

"Don't try to shrug this off," she said playfully, "you're trusting Ass Donut Latex Guy to stick to his diet." She shook her head in disbelief. "_Trusting_ a patient," she said. "You really are sick."

"You say it like it's a crime," House said and pushed the half-empty bowl away, leaning back.

"That's all you're going to eat?" she asked.

"I'm not too hungry," he said.

She gave him a disapproving look.

"Come on," he said, "I've been asleep for the past day. I'm not exactly in need of calories."

She appraised him dubiously. He gazed back at her with a shrugging smile.

"Okay," she said finally, "but you're going to drink a full glass of cranberry juice."

"Aww, come on," he complained, "I hate that stuff. Just bring me water."

"You wanna get well or what?" she said. "Because the sooner you get well…"

She gave him a very seductive look and he shivered a little.

"Okay," he said, voice breaking ever so slightly. "I'll have the juice."

"If you say so," she said with a devilish grin.

"I do say so," he said, grinning back.

She took the soup and brought him the juice, musing his hair as she went back to the study, thinking she'd leave him alone with his movie.

When she went to check on him ten minutes later, the glass was half-empty and he was fast asleep again.


	8. Happy

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.  
**A/N:** An uncharacteristically short chapter because I wanted to keep these two scenes but they don't fit with the next chapter or the previous chapter. :shrug:

jennamajig – Thanks! Wilson makes his entrance in the next chapter and won't be leaving after that. :)

LEoL – :stupid grin: Thankie. :) The review's coming, I swear. At this point, it's compounding, like interest. Gonna be a long 'un. :)

Queen of Elven City – Muchas gracias. :)

Merrie – I'm glad I've made Stacy likeable for you. I figure if House stayed with her for so long, _something_ had to be going right and I wanted to capture that as best I could. Glad you liked the SoC. I've been reading entirely too much modernist fiction (esp. Joyce, to whom my SoC owes its soul) lately, so it's all their fault! And yup, he's going south very quickly in the next chapter. :eg:

jeevesandwooster – Thanks! SoC seemed like a good choice to get to the thoughts of House while he's non compus mentis. I'm glad it worked. The patient story came from me misremembering the allergy warnings that go with flu shots. For some reason, I thought latex was involved in addition to eggs. It's not. But by the time I found that out, I already had the latex bit written and wanted to run with it. Quick google of latent food allergies in adults revealed an article about latex allergies triggering food allergies (to my delight) and that was it. It came together rather nicely for being based on a misremembrance. :)

KerowynGreenleaf – Danke. :)

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Happy**

Stacy blinked hard at the document in front of her and shook her head. She'd put off hunger for a while and it was starting to get to her. Relinquishing the file for the night, she tuned in to the other room and heard a baseball game on television. The movie must be over. If he'd been up and around, she hadn't heard him. Then again, she tended to get so absorbed in her work that he could sneak up behind her when he wanted to and she'd been tuning out the television in the other room since…since when?

She glanced at her watch.

No way. It couldn't be that late.

She yawned, stretched, and got up, being quiet in case he was still asleep.

Big surprise, he was. The baseball game was in the seventh inning and the VCR clock confirmed it: 9:30. Darkness had fallen while she'd been working and the only light in the living room came from the television.

She stopped behind the couch and looked down at him. Totally out. But he hadn't eaten very much earlier…surely he was hungry or thirsty or _something_.

"Greg?" she said softly, trying to modulate her voice so she wouldn't startle him.

He stirred but didn't wake.

"I'm going to make some dinner," she said. "Do you want anything?"

"Sleepy," he mumbled.

"Okay," she said. "Let me know if you do."

"Mmphf."

She left the lights off and crept to the kitchen.

* * *

Over an hour later, Stacy stood over him again. He was still dead asleep. He'd slept through her banging around in the kitchen, eating dinner in the dark—she'd offered it to him and he'd shrugged her off again—cleaning up, and the 10 o'clock news. He couldn't sleep all the time and he probably should've taken his antibiotic hours ago. She turned on a few lamps. When he didn't move, she placed a glass of milk on the coffee table next to him and shook his foot.

"Greg," she said loudly. "House. Up."

He groaned low in his throat.

"C'mon," she goaded.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

"C'mon, Sleepy," she said and shook his foot again. "Up."

He kicked her hand away and made an annoyed noise.

"Grouchy, too," she said. "You've got three of the seven dwarves down." She paused, considering. "Maybe four. Still Dopey?"

He groaned again, covering his eyes with an arm to block the light out, and muttered something about being tired.

"Definitely Grumpy and Sleepy," she said, sitting down on the edge of the couch next to his legs. "And you'll always be Doc, unless one of your risky maneuvers backfires. I hope you're not Sneezy and you'll never be Bashful. Who does that leave?"

"Snow White," he mumbled hoarsely. "And she gets to sleep. For a long time."

"No, there's another dwarf," she said and mentally ticked each one off. "That's only six. Who are we missing?"

"Does it matter?" he grumbled, peaking under his arm. "Why do I have to get up?"

"Your Queen commands it," she said imperially. "And it's antibiotic time." She nodded toward the glass of milk and opened her fist to show him a pill. "C'mon, up, or I'll get the cattle prod."

He sighed, grumbled to himself, and slowly sat up.

"And if you really love me," she said, "you'll take a bath."

He got himself sitting and glared at her, affronted. He sniffed himself. "I do _not_ stink," he said. He sniffed again. "Well, maybe a little."

She rolled her eyes and handed him the pill and the glass. "You're getting a little riper than I like you to be." She leaned back against the arm of the couch while he drank the milk. "Nice warm bath," she said enticingly. "Probably make you feel better."

"You coming too?" he asked lazily, eyes half-lidded. Her posture, leaning back with her goods on display, made his blood rush south.

She sat up and stretched, aware of the affect she was having on him—he was tired and there was no need to push him in a direction he couldn't go—and assumed a less inviting posture.

"We tried that, remember?" she said, "and it really didn't work. I still have bruises to prove it. Next place we get has _got_ to have a jacuzzi."

He stretched too and motioned for her to come closer to him. "Give me a day and we'll be back to shower sex," he said with a tired half-smile, half-leer. He pulled her to him, his hand going to her thigh and moving inward, his blood moving farther and farther away from his brain.

She slipped a hand under his shirt. "I'm _always_ up for shower sex," she purred. Her eyes said, _right now_.

He pulled away moodily. "Way to go," he said, slumping back on the couch, "now I feel totally impotent."

"All things in time," she said sagely, cuddling up to him and running a finger over his shirt. "There is a season and all that hippie crap."

He smiled, nearing the point of no return where he had to do _something_ and it wasn't going to be a cold shower if he could help it. Whatever it was, it was going to happen here and, not wanting the Atlanta Braves to check out his girlfriend's rack, he grabbed the remote and quickly turned the television off.

Her eyebrows jumped and she smiled devilishly at him. The television was off. She knew what that meant.

He leaned to his side to take the sight of her in. "'All that hippie crap'?" he echoed playfully, "I find that song moving, comforting, hope-giving." His hands found their way under her top to deftly unhook her bra and he gently squeezed her breasts, a stupid grin on his face. "Hippies are wise creatures of the earth."

She grinned back and moved to straddle him, wishing she wasn't wearing jeans. "We have _got_ to get you off of narcotics," she said and kissed him deeply.

He returned the kiss and felt his mind starting to dissolve. While he still could, he stopped himself and pulled away.

"If it happens," he said quickly, "it's going to be short. I'm tired, I can't—"

"Do you want to?" she asked, looking down at him, hands going to the back of his neck and gently massaging. "I'll do all the work."

The look he gave her answered her question and she leaned in to kiss him again.

He stopped again, breaking the kiss. "Do we have condoms?" he asked. "It can be communicable—"

She gave him a smoldering look. "I'll risk it," she said huskily.

He grunted deep in the back of his throat and pulled her to him.


	9. SOL

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author: **Sy Dedalus  
**Rating: **T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** I'm surprised that that little chapter got so many reviews. I couldn't bring myself to give up the seven dwarves joke (for the missing dwarf see the chapter title) and I wanted poor House to get laid one last time, but I didn't think it warranted much reviewing. Thanks, though. I appreciate it. :) And, ahh, it can't hurt him if she does it right, but I'll leave it at that so I can keep my T rating. ;)

Also, I'm indebted to Auditrix for the idea that House thinks he has cancer. She was the first one to write the infarc, well before "Three Stories" aired. Check it out or Chase and Foreman will come after you with a tire iron: http colon slash slash housemd dot blogspot dot com slash 2005 slash 02 slash what-i-didnt-tell-eileen-15 dot html.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: S.O.L.**

Stacy woke at her usual time on Sunday morning and slapped the alarm off. Greg was turned on his side again like he had been for the past few days and the gentle rise and fall of his chest told her he was asleep. She smiled softly. He deserved some sleep after last night. Good even when he wasn't at his best. And better than that (well, almost) was that, as far as she could tell, he hadn't been bothered by his leg all night—not enough to wake him up at least. He was getting better. Her smile broadened and she silently thanked science. She'd been really worried for a while there.

She got up quietly and showered and dressed. He was still out by the time she was ready to go with that cute, innocent little boy look she'd seen so much of lately on his face. She carefully placed a plate of toast and two full glasses, one of juice and one of water, on the table next to him, and left him a note to call her if he needed her.

But she was confident he wouldn't need her. He'd be up and about and would probably have the living room littered with beer bottles, chip bags, and half-drunk golfing buddies by the time she got home. Or maybe just James since she knew Greg didn't actually _like _his golfing buddies. Whatever. She'd be more than pleased to leave them to their sports and catch up with some of her friends this afternoon. To get back to normal.

She smiled again to herself as she locked the door behind her. If last night was any indication, he was just fine.

* * *

He glanced down at the toilet. That really wasn't right. The color. No change. It was the only thing that didn't fit. He hadn't had fever since Friday and it didn't hurt to pee anymore, ergo the antibiotic was working, but he still felt like crap in a blender. And he was still so damn tired.

Nice of her to leave toast and drinks out for him like that. He'd been hungry when he woke up; sex was good for the appetite. No blood in the condom last night—he'd insisted on one and was happy when she found one quickly—and he'd been silently relieved at the assurance it provided that whatever the problem was, it wasn't with his reproductive organs. He was attached to them and rather liked having them around. And as methods of narrowing down a diagnosis went, he liked that particular one more than anything else he could imagine.

But the problem remained. He curled his upper lip in annoyance. Had to be kidneys or bladder, one of the two; he knew that much. He couldn't figure out what was wrong, though.

Rusty urine and fatigue. What did those two symptoms indicate?

Renal failure, chronic becoming acute or acute becoming chronic, but without a doubt acute. Acute nephritic syndrome—glomerulonephritis. The many different kinds—mesangial proliferative, membranoproliferative types I and II, others.

Causes?

IgA nephropathy, Berger's disease. Goodpasture's syndrome presenting without the lung component. Lupus presenting really weirdly. A few other things.

But most of those included edema and—he glanced at his hands and feet and rubbed his abdomen—and no, he hadn't noticed any swelling.

Hematuria indicated…lots of things. Hard to tell without labs.

Could be kidney stones—microscopic, shredding his kidneys. But no. He'd feel that. He'd be howling if he had kidney stones. He'd _know_.

Not the kidneys at all maybe, though as a nephrologist he was predisposed to think kidneys when bloody urine was a symptom. But maybe not the kidneys at all. Could be bladder stones. Ripping his bladder to shreds. He wouldn't feel that as much—not as painful as kidney stones. But it wasn't as common and thus not as likely. And he could pee okay—peeing wasn't the problem. Didn't hurt, wasn't difficult, wasn't too often, wasn't retained, didn't require angles, wasn't hesitant, wasn't foamy, wasn't a dozen other things.

Just discoloration and fatigue, and fatigue could be unrelated. And fever except that the fever had gone away and hadn't come back… UTI still made sense. Could be any of those, though. He should go back in…

He shook his head—he didn't want to go anywhere but back to bed right now—and flushed the toilet. It was too weird and he was too tired to think any longer. Whatever. Treatment was easy enough: fluids for the rust, rest for the fatigue, and if he gave a crap when he felt better and had the slightest inclination to swab his urethra—he shuddered at the thought as he washed his hands—then he'd get cultures and other labs to figure out what was making him miserable.

Cancer.

No.

Not cancer.

No biopsies. No cancer.

He pushed the thought away, limping slightly as he went back to bed.

The leg. That's how it had all started.

At least it didn't hurt much anymore. Not too much. The dose he'd taken almost six hours ago had been holding strong until he'd gotten up, but now as he lay back down, he felt his muscles begin to spasm and clenched his teeth, reaching reflexively for the bottle on the table.

He grunted in relief when it finally stopped, covered with a light sheen of sweat, and forced himself to stop panting: it wasn't just the spasm, it was fear, and if he didn't take control of it, it would control him. _Tumor_, his mind spat. _No._ No. No tumor. It was nothing. He was starting to pant again and made himself stop and breathe through his nose. The last thing he needed was a panic attack over what was probably nothing.

But it wasn't right. It really wasn't right. Now it _really_ hurt. He gulped in air, put two pills in his mouth, and swallowed as much cranberry juice as he could stand. He grunted again as he lay down: it really,_ really_ hurt.

_Tumor_, his mind spat unbidden at him again as he rolled over and gripped his thigh. He couldn't stop his thoughts this time: too tired to stop them. _Tumor, it's a tumor causing ischemia, it's a tumor, you're going to die, Greg, pissing blood because it's metastasized to your kidneys, Fibrosarcoma, Malignant Fibrous Histiocytoma, Chondrosarcoma, Rhabdomyosarcoma, Liposarcoma, Leiomyosarcoma, Osteosarcoma, ischemic muscle riddled with tumors impinging on the blood supply, in the bone, in the soft tissue, too much to excise, chemo won't kill it, gamma can't get all of it, you're going to die you're going to die you're going to die…_

He shuddered and pushed the thought away again. He did _not have cancer_. He wasn't going to die. Hand trembling, he examined his leg carefully, knee to scrotum: no masses.

Nothing.

It would have to be big to mess with a muscle group as big as the quad…wouldn't it? Big enough that he'd be able to detect it with his hands…right?

Surely.

Surely it would and he hadn't felt anything. No mass. No tumor. Just tired muscle, weak from misuse. Tired body, tired mind. The codeine was starting to kick in. Tired, tired. Sleep.

Just sleep.

* * *

She arrived home later than she'd expected. Lang, one of their medical consultants, had looked at her like she had two heads when she'd brought up the food allergy theory. Hearing who it came from made him stare even more wildly at her. He finally said he'd never heard of that happening but agreed to look into it and backed out of the room like he was afraid she might hex him.

Sam had teased her mercilessly through lunch and only toned it down when Lang came back and said that not was it only possible but it may be probable. Sam had to content herself with tossing out the occasional barb as they figured out how to get the guy's lawyer to get the guy to consent to another allergy test. She had many less than kind words for Greg "Nutball" House by the time they finally called it a day at four o'clock.

Stacy wasn't too surprised to see the living room and kitchen undisturbed, the apartment as dark as she'd left it that morning, but at the same time, it worried and frightened her, making her stomach twist. She'd hoped… He said he'd be better today. _Maybe he is_, she thought as she filled a glass of water for him, _and he's reading or working_.

She checked the study first, hoping to find him there engrossed in a journal.

Nothing. Lights out. Just as she'd left it last night.

She sighed to herself and tried to push the worry away. It wasn't as if she hadn't known…she _was_ holding a glass of water for him in her hand right now—of course she knew or she wouldn't have poured it for him in the first place. She just didn't want to acknowledge it. It was hard, seeing him sick and being unable to help him. It was frustrating and difficult and, dammit, he was supposed to be right. He was supposed to be better today, like he'd said. He was supposed to be right like he always was.

But, she thought pausing outside the bedroom, maybe he was better. Maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe he'd been watching tv all day and he was just taking a nap right now. Nevertheless, her hand shook slightly as she pushed the door open.

Her heart sank. There he was, in the same place he'd been since Friday. Dammit. He was supposed to be right.

She cautiously approached the bed, glancing at the night table. Through the fear and worry, she was pleased to see that most of the toast she'd left was gone, the water glass empty, and the juice glass near-empty. At least he was eating and drinking. Not as much as he should be if this was all he'd had—she'd left that for him over eight hours ago—but it was better than yesterday. Sort of.

She cursed herself—should've stayed home yesterday, should've stayed home today. Of all the times for him to be wrong… She gathered up the plate and glasses and took them to the kitchen, leaving the fresh glass on the table, not worrying about being too quiet. She changed her clothes, hoping he'd wake up and leer at her and invite her to bed or make a sarcastic comment. Anything that would indicate he was feeling better, anything at all…

Nothing. Not a thing.

She approached the bed.

"Hey," she said, brushing his hair with her fingers.

He shifted a little.

"Still asleep?" she asked.

"Still asleep," he confirmed, not moving, eyes closed.

She ignored the tacit _leave me alone_. "Did you get up?" she asked.

He breathed in. "A few times," he sighed and blinked heavily. "Took a shower." He looked tiredly up at her. "Thanks for the toast and the note," he added, smiling faintly at the feel of her nails on his scalp.

"And not waking you up?" she said with a smile.

"Especially that part," he said, smiling tiredly back.

"You're welcome," she said and added an apologetic smile for waking him up now. "Doing any better?" she ventured.

"Think I have the wrong antibiotic," he said rubbing his face. "I'll go back in tomorrow."

She frowned. "You can call one in, right? Can't you do that?" she asked. "You know what you need better than anyone else." She paused, seeing him consider it. "I'll go pick it up," she offered.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nah," he said. "I'm actually feeling kind of flu-ish. Flu would explain a lot. Weakness, tiredness." He paused. He didn't want to tell her his theories—particularly since he didn't really have a theory yet. Prescribing himself something new…it would just waste pills and time and contribute to the immunity he'd already built up after years of taking antibiotics freely when he was younger. It was possible he still had the right one, too. It had taken care of the fever…or so it seemed. "Switching antibiotics…no, I'll stay on the one I have today and go in tomorrow. Sometimes it just takes a while…"

"This long?" she asked skeptically.

"It can," he said. He tried to smile softly. "Whatever it is, it can wait another twelve hours."

"Okay," she said, letting him appease her. "I'm leaving you some water." She indicated to the glass. "I'll be in the other room if you need me."

He grunted a 'thanks' and rolled on to his back, pulling the comforter around him.

She cracked the door, biting her lip. He looked bad but he was right: it could wait until tomorrow.

Still, it took her longer than usual to settle in to work.

* * *

He dreamed that he was eight again watching Mickey Mantle play ball from the first base line at Yankee Stadium, how he could swing so powerfully and knock the ball out of the park but how he nearly went down on one knee when he took the first step toward first base, it was so painful for him to run, how he had that limp all the boys imitated, watching him run so strangely and tip-toeing to a stop as he closed in on second or third even though he was trying to beat the throw,and asking his dad what did it mean that he ran like that? and his dad said 'son he's beat up, Mick's beat up, he won't last another season, never has been the same since he hurt his knee in the '51 series, tore it up, it's amazing he's played this long, you don't remember it, you weren't even one yet, but we brought you out here to watch Maris break The Babe's record, everyone wanted Mick to do it but he was just too beat up, hit fifty-four homers that year though, but you watch, if he knows what's good for him he'll retire soon before he really hurts himself', and he said 'no, dad, you're lying, he's the best ever', and he couldn't stop himself from crying though he was ashamed to cry in front of his dad, he was eight, he was a big boy, he didn't cry anymore, big boys didn't cry, but he couldn't stop himself and his dad looked away, jaw clenched, disapproving

disapprovingly eyeing Wilson and shouting across the cafeteria, 'your cancer killed my baseball hero'; Wilson shouting back, 'your baseball hero drank himself to death'; 'did not'; 'did too'; then that jackass from ortho yelling 'get a room you two'; closing the gap and choosing a table, badgering Wilson about hepatocellular carcinoma, Wilson claiming Mick got special treatment, getting a new liver so quickly, telling Wilson to go to hell, this was _The Mick_, and Wilson throwing a pickle at him and changing the subject, 'so, you and Stacy, it's working?' 'three weeks and she still comes home every night' 'amazing' 'you don't know the half' 'you drugging her?' 'druggin' her with luuuvin' Wilson rolled his eyes 'are you ever going to thank me for setting you up?' 'we'll name the first kid after you' 'kids? already?' 'not sure if she's serious; not sure if I'm serious; post-coital pillow talk is all' 'thanks, I so needed that image in my head right now; I'm trying to eat' 'you knew what you were getting into when you sat down' 'a momentary lapse in judgment; I forgot that you have no concept of table manners' 'you're the one who told me I should get laid more often' 'that doesn't mean I want to hear about it' 'you're such a puritan' 'you're such an exhibitionist' 'we're making memories…I look at this hospital with new eyes now…my office, her office, the roof, all the exam rooms in the clinic, patient rooms on every floor, radiology, ultrasound, a few rooms I didn't know existed, the basement, the sub-basement, her boss's office, the nephro lounge, your office—' '_my_ office!' 'your office' 'you didn't' 'we did' 'no way' 'oh yes; your desk; a few days ago' 'I _work_ at that desk!' 'it's a nice desk; she's still got the imprint on her back' 'that's disgusting' 'oh, like you haven't done it' 'not on _your_ desk!' 'maybe you should' 'how would I get in? no, wait, the better question, how did _you_ get in?' 'I have my ways' 'c'mon' 'not telling' 'I'm gonna get you back for this' 'I'm shakin' in my boots; it would be good for you and Mrs. Wilson to have some illicit fun' he leered and Wilson eyed him again disapprovingly

disapprovingly Maher looked down on him though he was taller than Maher by over an inch, 'House, you've got a real attitude problem; you're arrogant, you're selfish, and you're proud, and one day you're going to get in real trouble because you won't always be smarter than everyone around you; you think you will be, but times will change and if you don't learn to change with them, you'll be left behind; I don't normally have to take residents aside like this, but you have _got_ to pay more attention to your intern or this is going to happen again and next time I won't be the one to talk to you' 'Kaverty screwed up, it wasn't me—' 'she's _your_ intern, it _is_ you; you're responsible for making sure she doesn't screw up and when she does, it's on you' he bit his lip and looked away sullenly 'go find her, tell her it's your fault—hold her hand if you have to, she's scared of you—and show her how to do it again; take the time to make sure she really knows how to do it, that she's not just trying to get away from you—it won't kill you to be gentle with your students—and for God's sake, do _not_ do this again' he looked away in tacit agreement; 'try the ladies room if she's not in the lounge,' Maher said and looked down again disapprovingly before he walked away

* * *

In the end, she couldn't quite manage the level of concentration she needed to actually get something done. She'd expected that he would be better today and it nagged her that he seemed worse.

She turned on the television and searched through the cable guide for something he would want to watch. Anything to get him out of the bedroom for a few hours. When she was seven, her grandmother had come to her parents' house to die. Cancer. Though she'd been too young to really understand what was going on then, she knew that the days when her grandmother would leave the guest bedroom in favor of a couch or chair in the living room were good days. It had stayed with her and the idea of Greg spending all his time in the bedroom frightened her in ways she didn't really understand. But if she could get him to join her on the couch for a little while…_anything_…

Her seven-year-old inner self did a cartwheel when she found a movie he loved and she clasped her hands together quickly smiling. This would get him up. He loved this movie.

The apartment was so quiet that she found herself tip-toeing unconsciously into the bedroom. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Greg? Honey?" she said going around to his side of the bed. "Major League's on. It just started."

"Tired," he mumbled into the pillow, not bothering to open his eyes.

"C'mon," she said, "it's your favorite movie."

"Don't wanna move," he mumbled.

"Charlie Sheen, Wesley Snipes robbed of their Oscars," she cajoled, repeating what she'd heard him say about it all five times he'd made her watch it. "Best movie ever."

"Tired," he mumbled and pulled the covers over his head.

She sat down on the bed next to him and pulled the comforter off of his head. He cracked an eye open, knowing he was caught.

"I'm worried about you," she said softly, not trying to disguise the worry she felt this time.

He groaned in annoyance and pulled a pillow over his head. "Wanna sleep," he muttered.

"Gre-eg," she jibed, lifting the pillow.

He sneered at her. "Not funny," he grumbled.

"Really," she said, letting him have the pillow back now that she knew she had his attention, "I'm worried. You shouldn't be sleeping all the time."

"Don't worry," he mumbled from under the pillow. "It's just the flu. I'm just tired and weak. I don't even have fever."

"The flu?" she said dubiously. "In July?"

"Doesn't have to be flu season," he mumbled. Damn, now he was really awake. He opened his eyes, peeping out at her from under the pillow. "Might not be the flu at all," he said. "Could be mono."

She snorted in disbelief. "At your age?" she said.

"It's not impossible," he said with a half-shrug. "Weird and rare, but not impossible." He flung his arms over the pillow that covered his head, pushing it down on his face and blocking out light and sound. "Feels like mono."

Stacy considered it, tilting her head. "My roommate in college had mono," she said. "This does look familiar…" He moved his arms and peaked out again. She smiled at him. "Who have you been kissing?"

"You," he said and buried himself under the pillow again. "Thanks a lot," he added, voice muffled.

She lifted the corner of the pillow. "Just me?" she asked playfully.

"You and lots of foxy college girls," he mumbled, head still under the pillow. "Lots and lots. Truckloads."

"More boobs than brains?" she teased.

"You wouldn't believe the boobs," he mumbled. "Melons, cans…what's another word for boobs?...racks…" he lifted his head, peaking out, "help me out here…"

"You're being a dick," she said.

He grinned tiredly and disappeared under the pillow again. "You encouraged me," he mumbled. "Not s'posed to encourage me."

"Sure you don't want to try another antibiotic?" she asked.

"Won't help if it's mono," he mumbled. "I'll get Wilson to look at me tomorrow. Let's wait till then."

"If you're sure…" she said.

"I'm sure," he mumbled. "Let me be miserable in peace."

"Okay," she said standing up. "If you need anything—"

"The other room, I know, I know," he mumbled and pulled the covers over his head again.

* * *

He dreamed he was in college again playing lacrosse against Dartmouth. He passed the ball to his teammate, broke away from the defender who'd been hounding him, and ran to his position on the edge of the two-point line, just like they'd done a million times in practice. Less than a minute left in the fourth quarter; two points would tie the score and force overtime. He prowled the line until Ugly caught his eye and passed him the ball. He ran along the line until he spotted an opening and planted his foot on the turf to shoot when a defender smashed into him from the left. His right foot stuck to the ground and he heard his leg snap in a rush of motion and he screamed. He hit the ground and saw his leg from the knee down still stuck cartoonishly in the turf, spurting blood. He knew he was screaming but he couldn't feel it at all.

He breathed in sharply, awake, and looked around. No, no, that hadn't happened. They'd won that game by three points. He never had a serious injury playing lacrosse. His leg, he knew, was still there and in one piece. Codeine drug him down into sleep again.

* * *

She coaxed more toast into him, ignoring his protestations that she was treating him like a baby, gave him his pills, made him drink a full glass of water, and found herself watching The Sopranos and Six Feet Under alone with the volume down, picking at an unappetizing microwave dinner. Even the promise of good television couldn't get him up and out of the bedroom. She felt helpless and scared, half-watching the 10 o'clock news with her legs drawn up on the couch, head resting on her knees. She gave up concentrating on anything after the weatherman predicted more hot weather for the week and unfolded herself, turning the lights off and making sure the door was locked.

She was undressing, turned away from the bed, when she felt eyes on her back.

"Getting enough beauty rest?" she asked without turning around.

"I'm working my way up to diva," he said, voice rusty. He cleared his throat. "Slowly but surely. I'm going on tour with Whitney next year."

"I _really_ hope you don't have mono," she said slipping a nightgown on.

"That makes two of us," he said.

She turned to face him, hands going to her hips. "You don't _really_ think…"

He'd turned on to his right side again so he could watch her. The comforter rose and fell as he shrugged. "It fits."

"That's really weird," she said, brow furrowing. "I thought you said you had mono when you were in college."

"I did," he said. "Really messed my term up."

She frowned to herself. "I thought you couldn't get it again once you'd already had it. Like chicken pox."

He made one of his funny faces that she loved to see. She was convinced he'd been the class clown as a child despite his repeated assertions that he was a quiet, bored and very boring child. He could be so expressive and animated…seeing him pull a face now made her worry a little less.

"It's possible but extremely unlikely if I'm healthy," he said and kicked himself immediately for saying 'if' instead of 'since'. "Lucky me," he added, hoping she wouldn't pick up on it.

"_If_ you're healthy?" she said. "What does that mean?"

"It means…" he sighed to himself; no reason to worry her. "It means it could be any number of things. Fatigue is a very common symptom. By itself it could mean hundreds of things. Usually it means the patient is stressed out from doing too much and is wasting my time because there's nothing wrong with them. Less coffee, more sleep."

"But it's not by itself," she pointed out. "Unless you're back to yellow and you haven't told me."

"No," he said pulling another face, "still red. But hematuria and fatigue together can still be a number of things. It's hard to tell based on the symptoms alone."

"But you've got theories," she said.

"I always have theories," he said with a shrug. "But it's kind of pointless to rattle them off right now. I'm tired and I don't know anything without labs at this point. Are you going to stand there all night or are you coming to bed?"

She realized she had been standing there in her nightgown, hands on her hips, through the whole conversation. She gave him a dirty look and went around to her side of the bed. "Smartass," she said.

He rolled on to his back and leered at her.

"How's your leg?" she asked slipping under the covers and putting her pillow against the headboard so she could sit up. "I assume it's better since you haven't mentioned it."

"You assume correctly," he said glancing up at her. "All my other muscles are joining in now. Doesn't feel different any more."

She frowned. "That can't be good," she said.

"Consistent with mono and flu," he said, shrugging the comment off. "Probably viral whatever it is."

"S.O.L.?" she said with a wry smile.

"S.O.L.," he confirmed, making a face. "Es muy S.O.L."

"Well," she said, "at least you're going to a real doctor this time."

"Yeah," he said faintly. If he mentioned today's incident with his leg to Wilson, it'd be straight to cancer. Straight to that look. _Fibrosarcoma, Malignant Fibrous Histiocytoma, Chondrosarcoma, Rhabdomyosarcoma, Liposarcoma, Leiomyosarcoma, Osteosarcoma, you're going to die you're going to die nothing we can do._

"Greg?" she said, noticing his far-away look. "What is it?"

He pushed the thoughts away. "Nothing," he said, still staring at space. He snapped out of it and looked up at her. She was worried. No reason to scare her over a mere possibility. It could be something else. A virus plus an infection plus a pulled muscle. S.O.L. indeed. "Nothing," he repeated. "Just tired."

"Okay," she said, not convinced but unwilling to push him. He looked so tired. "Will it bother you if I read for a while?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said. "I could sleep through a tornado right now."

She smiled and leaned over to kiss him goodnight. He held a hand up. "Probably not a good idea," he said.

She smiled and gazed at him for a moment, then kissed him anyway. "Wake me up if you need anything," she said.

"I will," he said and smiled tiredly before rolling over to his right side again, facing away from the light.

She opened the book, the latest John Grisham novel, and read the same page three times before she gave up. He was breathing softly and deeply next to her: asleep again. She sighed, hoping he'd be okay, and turned off the light, not sure if she'd be able to sleep at all.


	10. Rhabdomyolysis

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** Been waiting to get to this chapter for a long time. Hope you like it!

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Rhabdomyolysis**

He'd been dreaming again, his mind replaying the death of a patient ten years ago that had hit him hard and still bothered him when his defenses were down at night and it could creep back in, when he snapped awake suddenly.

He had it. He knew what it was. All of his symptoms were related. They had to be.

It started with leg pain. The pain got better but his muscle got weaker. Ischemia—something was cutting off the blood flow to his right thigh muscles. Untreated ischemia led to necrosis and necrotic cells dumped all kinds of crap into his system and his kidneys couldn't take it. Myoglobin. Nephritic toxicity. Poisoning his kidneys, couldn't get the stuff out of him, and that's what was making him tired and fuzzy. Couldn't think, sleeping all the time, bloody urine without the accompanying edema or abdominal pain, weak muscle in his thigh, it all fit. Everything but the fever and the fever had been gone for two days. Myoglobinuria—myoglobin in his urine. Tea-colored, yes, it was tea-colored, not rust-colored. He should've noticed it before. That was it. And rhabdomyolysis—skeletal muscle being destroyed and leaking all kinds of crap into his system leading to ARF, acute renal failure. That was it. That was it. The elevated CK level should've tipped him off immediately—that idiot quack from the E.R. too—but he'd missed it. And now it had been going on for four days and if he was this sick and his CK had been elevated three days ago—oh shit, he was fucked.

He needed to—had to call—someone—had to—but he was so tired. He couldn't move, he was so tired, so weak. Acute renal failure, probably affecting his blood pressure now. Just so tired. He had no idea where the phone was.

Myoglobinuria. Rhabdomyolysis. ARF. He tried to fix those words in his mind so he wouldn't lose them.

Where was the phone?

It was dark—he couldn't see—not blindness? surely not? No, no, just nighttime. Dark outside, dark inside. Bed. He'd been asleep. He heard breathing. Who?

Myoglobinuria. Rhabdomyolysis. ARF. Don't forget don't forget don't forget.

Where was the phone?

Dark. Why dark?

What did he want with the phone? Where was it? Why was it important?

He couldn't see anything. Why? Couldn't seem to breathe fast enough. Couldn't get enough air.

Someone was there next to him. Who? Ryan? No, he didn't let Ryan sleep in his bed. They slept outside in the tree house. He didn't like Ryan and wished he would go home. Ryan pushed him and told him his mother made him come over, that he hadn't wanted to, and he didn't like this smelly old tree house and he didn't want to play with baseball cards and it was weird knowing everyone's batting average and RBIs and on-base percentages, normal kids didn't know that stuff, normal kids played baseball not talked about it all the time, and he didn't throw the ball right and he couldn't run like The Mick with that special limp from when he hurt his knee or hit lefty any good and this tree house was crummy. He'd never let Ryan sleep in his bed, not if he had a thousand million nightmares and monsters were chasing him across the desert and his feet were burning off.

He couldn't breathe enough. Something about the phone?

Myo something. Myalgia? No. His muscles didn't hurt. Not really. But they had. That meant something, right? What did it mean?

Why couldn't he breathe enough?

ARF. Arf? Alf? No. RAF? Royal Air Force? No. Arf arf arf, the sound a dog makes? No. AperiodRperiodFperiod. A.R.F. Maybe it didn't mean anything.

Someone was next to him. Who? Someone.

He felt himself falling asleep again. There was something…some reason he wasn't supposed to…something he was supposed to remember…but he couldn't think of it and he was so tired…

* * *

He wasn't sure if he was awake or not, but it had come back to him. Acute renal failure because of Myoglobinuria because of Rhabdomyolysis. He repeated the words over and over to himself, trying to discern if he was awake.

After a while, he recalled who he was in bed with and figured out how to use his arms again. He nudged her and started muttering her name over and over again, trying to increase the volume, but he wasn't sure if she was even there or if he was actually speaking.

"Stacy, Stacy, Stacy, wake up, wake up, wake up."

He registered her moving and saying something, then her hands on him. He repeated the words over and over again: Rhabdomyolysis. ARF. Myoglobinuria.

"Greg?" she said, awake immediately, reaching to turn a lamp on. "What is it? What's—"

"I need you to write something down," he said tiredly, eyes closing reflexively against the light.

She wasn't sure he was even awake, the way he was talking in a half-mutter. He might've been dreaming.

"Now," he added and unglued his eyes, fixing an wild, frantic look on her.

"Tell me, I'll remember it," she said. This wasn't good. She was calling 911 the second he let her go. "What's wrong?"

"No, write it," he insisted, trying hard to focus on her.

"Greg, what is it—"

"Don't talk!" he half-yelled, too tired to get a real yell out. "Please—" he added imploringly, "just write it down. Hurry."

"I'm calling 911," she said and had her feet on the floor before he could stop her.

"No!" he said as forcefully as he could. "Please—just do this," he turned his head toward her, blinking and trying to get her visage to stop swirling in front of him. "Now, before I forget. Hurry!"

She fumbled around in a drawer and came up with a pen and the back of a law journal.

"Okay, I'm ready," she said, wondering if he had it together or this was some sort of waking nightmare.

"Write it down," he insisted.

"I'm ready, I'm ready," she said, poised to write. She showed him the journal and pen. "What is it?"

"Okay," he said and concentrated, visualizing the words and what the meant, the physical processes each involved, the root words, making sure he got them right because if he didn't... "Myoglobinuria. ARF. Rhabdomyolysis. Alkaline diuresis." He stopped and pressed two fingers against his neck. Thump…thump…thump…thump… "Bradycardia. Don't write that one. Hyperkalemia—write that—hyperkalemia."

"I can't spell most of those," she said helplessly, wanting to help him but not knowing if this was the right thing or if she should ignore him and run to the phone.

"Don't worry—just get close enough," he said. "Myoglobinuria, ARF, rhabdomyolysis, alkaline diuresis, hyperkalemia. Got 'em?"

"Close enough," she said shakily, trying to smile and checking what she'd written down.

"Now call Wilson," he demanded.

"I'm calling 911," she said, smile gone and half-way to the door in a flash.

"No!" he said, unable to focus on her at all now, feeling himself fade. This wasn't good. She had to call Wilson, not anyone else, just Wilson. "No, they don't know what they're doing. Call Wilson. Read him the list—he'll know what it means."

"You can't tell me what it means?" she asked, reaching toward him, hoping to reach him. He was so pale. His eyes—he wasn't looking out of his eyes. He wasn't there. "Greg?"

"Just call him!" he snapped, not sure if he was talking or not, starting to lose consciousness. If she didn't call Wilson, if he couldn't get the message across… No, no, she would, she would. "Do it now! Before I pass out! Go!"

She scrambled out of bed and ran to get the phone. She cursed as she punched the wrong number in, running back to the bedroom, and cursed again when she hit the wrong number again.

House was barely breathing on the bed, face chalky and pale, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," she muttered as the phone rang. "He's not answering. What's his pager number?"

She saw him swallow and try to say something when the phone clicked and a sleepy voice on the other end said, "Hello?"

"James, thank God," she said. "Something's really wrong with Greg—"

"What—" he stated to say.

"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "He gave me a list to read to you. I don't know if I have these right, but they're—" she read the list to him.

"Oh my God," Wilson said when she'd finished.

"What does it mean?" she asked frantically.

"Are you with him right now?" Wilson asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Okay, go put your fingers on his neck," he said. "I need you to tell me how fast his heart's beating. You there?"

"Yeah," she said, placing her fingers on his neck. "It's slow."

"Is his breathing slow too?" Wilson asked.

Stacy checked. "I think so," she said. "What's wrong with him? He looks horrible. Tell me what those words mean. Is he dying? He looks like he's dying. Oh my God."

"It's okay," he said calmly. "Don't panic." He wanted to say, 'he's not dying,' but he honestly didn't know if that was true. "Is he awake?"

"Greg," she said shaking him, "Greg, wake up." She shook him harder. He was ashen and unmoving. "Wake up! Greg!" she shouted. "No, he's not," she said to Wilson. "Oh my God. What's wrong with him?"

"He'll be all right," Wilson said calmly. "Listen, I need you to call an ambulance and make sure they take him to our hospital. Read them the list you read me. Don't panic—he needs you to stay calm. Stay calm and dial 911. I'm going to hang up now so you can do that, okay?"

"James, what's wrong with him?" she demanded.

"His kidneys aren't working—but he'll be okay," he said. "Call 911 now. I'm going to hang up, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

There was a click and the line went dead. For a moment, all she could do was shake. Then she snapped out of it and dialed 911.

* * *

Wilson pulled on the first shirt and pants he could find, skipped socks and underwear entirely, stepped in to a pair of loafers, grabbed his keys and wallet, and sprinted out of the apartment and down the stairs to his car, all the while thanking everyone and everything he could think of that he'd slept at his place and not Julie's tonight.

He cranked the engine, stabbed the flashers on, and sped into the street, also thankful that it was 5 a.m. and the traffic lights were still blinking yellow and red so he had a clear path as he raced toward House's apartment.

He punched the number for the hospital switchboard on his cell and got them to connect him to nephrology, then left an urgent message to page the on-call doc and have whoever it was call him on his cell, thankful again that the person who answered knew him and didn't ask questions. He parked sideways in the fire lane, cut the engine and left the flashers on, not even bothering to lock the doors of his very nice and very new BMW. He dashed up three flights of stairs, too keyed up to wait for the elevator, and knocked quickly on the door.

He heard her walking quickly toward the door and turning the locks. He was mildly surprised to see that she'd managed to get dressed since he knew the 911 operator had kept her on the phone, but she'd always been capable. Right now as she stood before him, phone in hand, she looked like she was falling apart.

"James, thank God," she said to him. "No, it's my friend," she said into the phone. "He's a doctor."

"Where is he?" Wilson asked quickly stepping inside.

"Bedroom," Stacy said.

"What's the ETA on the ambulance," Wilson asked over his shoulder as he hurried back to the bedroom.

Stacy asked the operator. "Five minutes she says," Stacy said.

Wilson nodded quickly as he entered the bedroom. House looked like half-dead, pale and unmoving. He quietly took House's pulse, noting everything he saw. Resps slow and shallow, skin dry, elevated turgor, and the big one, hard to miss, totally unconscious. Pulse—Jesus—45.

"Has he been eating and drinking?" Wilson asked.

"Not very much," she said, ignoring the 911 operator. "He said the medicine he was taking for his leg made him nauseous, so he wasn't hungry. I tried to get him to drink, but he slept so much…"

"It's okay," Wilson said. "Don't worry about it. He's just a little dehydrated—that's all."

"Is this related to the UTI?" she asked anxiously. "Or—he thought he might have the flu or mono."

Wilson looked at her strangely. "I don't think it's related to any of those things," he said.

"But—" she started, "—the E.R. doctor said that if his urine got darker…"

"Has it?" Wilson asked quickly.

"I don't know," she said. "He's had blood in his urine since Friday, but he said it looked okay. A little darker than normal, but he said it was okay."

"Did he ever say it looked like tea?" Wilson asked.

"No," she said, "but he slept almost all day and all of yesterday."

"Did he complain of being tired?" Wilson asked.

"Yes, all the time," she said. "He said it was because of the codeine he was taking and then today because he thought he had the flu or mono."

"He was taking codeine?" Wilson said with surprise.

"For his leg," she said. "With antibiotics. The E.R. doctor—Young—gave it to him. Greg said it made him tired."

"Did he say anything else about his leg?" Wilson asked. "Did he mention weakness or soreness, or just pain?"

"He said it felt heavy," she answered, "but he said it wasn't bothering him anymore last night."

"Okay," he said, processing the answer.

"What did he tell you?" she asked. "The list I read. What does that mean?"

"The words he gave you," Wilson said, "mean that his kidneys are shutting down because of too much myoglobin in his bloodstream. Myoglobin's a protein that's secreted when cells die, especially muscle cells, and too much of it messes the kidneys up. He thinks it's caused by muscle necrosis—muscle death—and he told me what to do to counteract the excess of myoglobin—to get his kidneys working again. I asked you to see how fast his pulse was because of the last word he said—hyperkalemia—which means there's too much potassium in his body right now. It's keeping his heart from beating fast enough. That's the main problem—that's why he looks so bad and slept so much. As soon as we can get the imbalance in his system corrected, he'll be okay. The EMTs will start him on IV fluids and that'll help. This is highly treatable—he'll be fine."

The fearful expression that had been growing on her face throughout his explanation got worse. She looked like she was near tears.

"It's okay," he said soothingly. "These things are easy to fix. He told us how to fix them. He'll be much better in a few hours."

Her gaze shifted from him to the bed and she approached it, expression unchanged. "Greg?" she said in a choked voice. "Greg?" She turned back to Wilson. "Why won't he wake up?"

"All of that stuff in his system—not only myoglobin and potassium but other things—has slowed his heart-rate and worn his body out, so he's unconscious," She made a choked noise and he stepped closer to her, putting on a comforting expression. "Don't worry," he said soothingly, "he's not feeling anything, no pain, and he'll be fine once we treat him—no long-term effects."

He kept to himself the thought that the degree of muscle necrosis that would cause such a severe imbalance would almost surely have long-term effects. She didn't need to hear it; it would only upset her further and right now she looked like she was breaking down.

He stepped closer to her, holding his arms out. "Hey," he said softly, "come here."

She let him embrace her and he felt her trying hard not to cry. "It's okay," he said soothingly, "it's okay."

He held her for a while as she shook quietly and let her go when she pushed away.

She wiped her eyes and sniffled, trying to smile. "Thank you for being here," she said.

He smiled back. They both jumped at a harsh knock on the door.

"That's them," Wilson said in action again, going toward the front door. "I'll let them in; you pack a bag for him. He'll need a change of clothes and toiletries," he called. Packing a bag would keep give her something to do and ease the panic she was feeling.

He let the paramedics in and directed them to the bedroom, telling them what was going on and what they should do. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he answered it, stepping into the hall as he watched the paramedics get House onto their gurney.

"James Wilson," he answered.

"Dr. Wilson," a male voice said, "this is Dan Sanders from nephro. You paged me."

"Yes," Wilson said. "I've got a patient for you en route, five to ten minutes out. Meet us in the E.R. Thirty-nine year old male, acute renal failure possibly caused by myoglobinuria induced by rhabdomyolysis; exhibiting symptoms of hyperkalemia. Moderately dehydrated. He's been taking codeine PRN for at least two days, probably forty to sixty milligrams. Pulse is—hang on—" he cupped the palm of his hand over the receiver and called, "Guys. Pulse and BP."

"43, 95 over 67," one of them answered.

"Pulse 43, BP 95 over 67," Wilson repeated into the phone.

"Wilson, wait, wait," Sanders said, "how do you know all this?"

"You know Greg House, right?" Wilson said.

"Yeah," Sanders said, "he's there too?"

"It's him," Wilson said. "He's the patient."

"Please tell me you're kidding," Sanders said.

"I wish," Wilson said. "His girlfriend called me fifteen minutes ago in a panic. He gave her a list to read off to me before he lost consciousness. The problems: acute renal failure, myoglobinuria, rhabdomyolysis, hyperkalemia, and the treatment: alkaline diuresis."

"Holy crap," Sanders interjected. Wilson couldn't tell if he was worried or impressed.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "He's been sick since last week. He went to the E.R. on…Friday, I think, and was diagnosed with a UTI. Girlfriend says he's been out of it since yesterday."

"Jeez," Sanders said. "You said five minutes out?"

"Yeah," Wilson said and looked up as the paramedics signaled to him. "Hey, we're ready to roll here. Get his E.R. records from last week. I don't know what kind of tests they ran. I gotta go. See ya in a few."

"I'll be there," Sanders said.

Wilson hung up and went over to Stacy, who had a bag in her hands and looked ready to collapse.

"Hey," he said putting his hand on her shoulder and taking the bag from her.

"They couldn't get him to wake up," she said in a shell-shocked voice.

"Don't worry," Wilson said as he steered her out of the bedroom behind the EMTs. "I was just on the phone with one of the nephrology docs and he's going to meet us there. He knows what's up. We'll have House yelling at us again in no time." He called to the EMTs, "Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, guys. They're waiting for him."

"We know," one of the EMTs called over his shoulder.

"Do you have your keys?" Wilson asked Stacy, stopping her in the doorway.

She nodded shakily and picked up her purse from the foyer table. Wilson locked the door and motioned for her to step into the hallway.

She started toward the paramedics, who were headed for the elevator.

"Stacy, wait," Wilson said as he shut the door and made sure it was locked. "Ride with me."

"I want to go with him," she protested weakly.

"It's easier if you go with me," he said.

She looked unconvinced and half-turned to follow them.

"You'll just be in their way," Wilson said. "Come on, we'll follow them."

She stopped and let Wilson take her arm and lead her down the stairs to his car.


	11. The Question

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** Sorry this took so long—new Harry Potter book to absorb and all, quite intense (the ending—gah!). I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter so much and I really appreciate the reviews. :) Re: Some Days, it's comin', it's comin'. :)

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Question**

This wasn't quite how she'd pictured her Monday. She'd always thought the phrase 'worried sick' was a gross overstatement, a cliché at best, but when Wilson had come to the room that morning with coffee and bagels, she hadn't been able to eat it. James, understanding without words, hadn't pressed the issue. He'd merely nodded slightly and abandoned the bag, handing her a coffee instead. Half an hour later, he said he had to attend rounds, but that he'd be back as soon as possible and told her to page him if she needed anything.

She hadn't needed anything. Greg's status hadn't changed. _Stable_. He didn't look very stable to her.

The morning had dragged on so slowly that she thought time might be moving backwards, check after check revealing no change that registered to her. By nine o'clock, she was exhausted and growing more and more worried despite assurances from the nurses and the day shift nephro doc who'd been assigned to Greg's case, even the assurances from Wilson who told her Greg's labs were looking better and better but didn't smile when he talked, because he was still asleep.

'Asleep' they told her. She sniffed to herself. Not 'asleep': 'unconscious'. If that was stable…

Then again, James told her that they weren't trying too hard to wake him up right now—that the electrolyte imbalance, though easy to reverse, was hard on the body, especially in such a severe case. He'd been doing his best to make her feel better—she recognized that and appreciated it—but it wasn't working. He looked too worried for it to work.

In addition to Wilson's hourly visits to interrogate the nurses and look at labs and stats, and the constant stream of medical personnel, Sam and Jack had dropped in briefly to express their best wishes and update her on their cases. They were negotiating with Avocado Guy's lawyer to get him tested. The very mention of that case—they had taken to calling him 'Avocado Guy' too—made her heart tear. She'd nearly lost it right there in front of them. Instead, they shifted their weight as an awkward silence ensued and begged off with some excuse about getting back to work. She'd been relieved to see them go.

Her boss had been by too to let her know she could take whatever time she needed if she needed it. He'd seemed nervous, as had Sam and Jack, and she felt like she was being left out of a loop she wasn't really aware existed. Maybe it had been the glimpses they'd each gotten of Greg looking horrible, sprawled out in the ICU, or the way she couldn't conceal how rattled she was. Only James seemed to be able to keep it together, ducking in and out whenever he could.

James. She'd seen a new side of him today.

Usually he was amiable but quiet when she saw him at social gatherings, never the first to begin a conversation but always polite. She knew that if he was in a group of people where he felt comfortable—with his colleagues or sports buddies—he could be loud, even raucous, but she'd always understood him as more inclined to observation than participation. Greg brought the latter quality out in him, though, and she'd seen him do and say his share of idiotic things in the company of her oft-idiotic boyfriend. But this morning he'd been someone else entirely.

She didn't really remember the drive to the hospital: it was clouded over with intense worry and fear and she didn't want to think about all the possibilities that had been rushing through her head then. She had a feeling that he'd been quiet but when they'd arrived at the E.R. entrance, she knew things she hadn't known ten minutes earlier, so he must've been talking to her and answering questions she didn't remember asking. She'd been touched when he'd turned to her after turning the engine off and told her not to bring the bag in yet; she'd been awkwardly reaching back to get it, not sure if she was doing the right thing or not, and had been so relieved when he'd calmly and clearly told her what to do.

She'd been much less pleased with him moments later when he directed her to an in-take station to fill out forms, telling her he'd be back as soon as possible. She hadn't even considered staying there and followed him immediately toward the entrance to the E.R. proper.

He whirled around, hearing her footsteps behind him, and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arms' length.

"You don't need to see this," he said firmly, looking searchingly at her. Every aspect of his bearing said _No_.

"I have to see him," she said helplessly, halfway between demanding and defeated.

"No," he said firmly again, hands on her shoulders still, but his brown eyes softened. "If it were Julie, I wouldn't want to be there for this part," he added.

"No way," she said and angrily flung his arms from her shoulders, "you'd be right there and you know it!"

"No, I wouldn't," he said more softly, looking into her eyes, "really, I wouldn't." He put a hand back on her shoulder. "Stay here. I'll be back in ten minutes tops."

She slumped a little, knowing he was right, and moreover that she was holding him back and he needed to make sure everything was being done correctly. Her tacit slump had been all the assurance he'd needed. He'd squeezed her shoulder briefly, looked searchingly at her one last time, and bolted to the patient area.

Later, after an excruciating period of time that seemed to stretch for hours during which she tried over and over again to remember Greg's social security number, he reappeared looking flustered and breathless. He held a hand out when she tried to stand to greet him and sat down next to her.

"He's going to be okay," was the first thing he'd said.

She clapped her hands to her mouth in a gesture of fear, relief, and jubilation. Wilson put an arm around her and hugged her briefly.

"His vitals are still low, but his EKG looks good—that's what I was worried about more than anything," he said, more relieved by this than she'd expected, which would've been alarming if she'd been paying attention. "His heart's fine."

"You're sure?" she asked, almost afraid to hope.

"It looks good," he said, grinning with relief. "That's as sure as I can be right now."

"The— you said— too much potassium, right?" she asked haltingly. "Are they fixing that?"

"They better be," Wilson growled to himself, his grin gone. He stopped and looked apologetically to Stacy. "Sorry. I told you I'd come right out here," he said, "and I did. There are still things I'm not satisfied with."

"Do you need to go back?" she asked, nervously wringing her hands.

"Yes," he said decisively, standing.

"Can I—"

He saw the need in her eyes, the desperation, and he didn't have to think about it.

"Come on," he said.

He took a few striding steps, then stopped and turned, taking her by the shoulders again.

"I have to warn you," he said, "he looks bad. I shouldn't let you back yet—"

She saw him considering it, telling her to stay here again.

"I can handle it," she said as strongly as she could. She sounded weak to herself.

He looked at her searchingly again. "Okay," he said, "but if you feel faint or sick—even a little—sit down immediately."

"I will," she said, nervous and hopeful and scared.

She saw him hesitate again, biting his lip.

"James, let's go," she said resolutely.

He nodded briefly and led her back.

And he'd been right. She hadn't been ready for what she'd seen: Greg looked lifeless lying there unconscious and naked, tubes and wires everywhere. She'd shuddered and leaned against the wall for support.

Wilson changed, taking no notice of her, and began barking out orders immediately.

"How much sodium bicarbonate have you given him?" he demanded, addressing a wiry balding man Stacy didn't recognize but who reminded her of a much less attractive, stockier, more sour-looking Mark Greene.

"The correct amount for his pH and bicarbonate levels," the wiry man answered blandly, speaking to Wilson as if he were a child with too many nettling questions. He reluctantly handed Wilson a sheet.

Wilson scanned it and grunted. "Are you going to start an arterial line or what?" he asked impatiently.

"He doesn't need it," said the man condescendingly and took the sheet from Wilson.

"He does need it," Wilson countered quickly, anger flashing in his voice. "He'll need a repeat ABG down here and at least one more once he's on the floor." He stamped his foot, hands going to his hips. "His kidneys are already failing because of negligence in this department, don't mess up his arteries too," he growled.

The man looked askance at Wilson, as though he'd like to shoo him away like an annoying insect.

"He would want it," Wilson added, jaw clenched.

"I'm not taking orders from him," the man said, "he's unconscious."

Wilson stamped his foot again. "He's been right about everything so far," Wilson said angrily. "He wouldn't want you screwing with him like this."

The man crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Wilson. "You don't have that kind of authority down here," the man said smugly.

Wilson glared at him, lip curling. "We haven't found the underlying problem yet," he argued in a low, deadly-serious voice, "so it's safe to assume that his acid/base balance will need continual monitoring until we do. An arterial line is indicated. Start one." Wilson paused, narrowing his eyes, utter contempt on his face. Stacy saw him force himself to take a deep breath before he spoke again. "Why am I telling you something you already know?" he half-shouted, unable to contain himself.

The other man gave him a pitying look as though he'd gone temporarily insane. He rocked on his heels, smirked, and said nothing.

Wilson glared harder at him, hot with anger now. "Where the hell is Sanders?" he barked.

"Getting labs," said the wiry man irritably. "He's not that critical and depending on what the labs say, he might not need enough repeats to warrant an a-line."

Wilson got in the other doctor's face and growled something. Stacy wasn't sure she heard him right, but she thought he said, "I'm not going to let you scar his arteries just because you're determined to be a dipshit!"

The man smirked again, simpering, and Wilson backed off.

"You sound just like him, you know," the man said as if amused by the idea.

"Yeah, which means I'm right," Wilson said, nostrils flaring, grinding his teeth.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

When the other man didn't budge, Wilson said shortly, "I'm starting it myself, get out of my way," and tried to push past him toward the supply cabinet.

The man stopped him bodily and for a moment Stacy thought Wilson might hit him.

"You can't do that," the man said calmly holding Wilson by the shoulders. "He's my patient."

"And you're not treating him!" Wilson yelled.

He struggled futility, intent on doing what he thought ought to be done, but the man held him back without much effort. Wilson stopped struggling after a while and the man let him go.

"You're overreacting," the man said evenly, as if he'd expected this all along. "You're his friend—you shouldn't even be here right now." He nodded toward Stacy. "Neither should she."

Wilson bristled. "Shut the hell up, Morris, and start the line," he said dangerously, eyeing the man. "Or do you like letting your patients suffer needlessly?" he added with a sneer.

"Wait until his other labs are back so we can see if he needs an a-line," the man said snidely. "It's five minutes. Ten at the most."

"It's already been ten minutes and four_ days_ before that," Wilson snapped.

"He's stable, that's the bottom line," the other man said blandly, "he can wait and you can wait. This doesn't have to be done right now, if it's necessary at all."

She saw Wilson's whole body tense but he didn't say anything.

The wiry man was staring hard at him. "Either you calm down or I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said.

For several long seconds, Wilson's posture didn't change, and Stacy thought for the second time in five minutes that he might hit the man. She saw his fists clench and unclench but after a moment he let out a breath he'd been holding and relaxed.

"Fine," he said in a defeated voice. "Fine."

He stepped toward the wall where Stacy was standing, arms folded, head down.

"What was that about?" she asked, watching the E.R. doctor leave the room out of the corner of her eye and wondering where he was going.

Wilson jumped when she spoke to him; he seemed to have forgotten she was there.

Wilson sighed. "Nothing really," he said tiredly.

"Is he doing something wrong?" she asked worriedly, ready to give the other man a dressed down if she had to.

"No, no, he's right," Wilson said rubbing his forehead. "I was overreacting."

"You're sure?" she pressed.

"Yeah," he said expelling another breath. "He might not need it. They'll have the lab results any minute now and that'll direct them. As long as his EKG looks good—" he paused to glance at the machine, "and it does, there's no reason not to wait. It's actually better to wait…" he said trying to smile. "Maybe…" he added lowly to himself. He blew out another breath. "I'm sorry if I scared you. I lost it."

"You were just trying to help him," she said, "to do what he would've wanted done." She paused. "He's not always right, anyway. If I'd listened to myself instead of him, he would've been back here yesterday." She paused and gazed at him. He looked so bad, so alone. She couldn't help feeling responsible in some way. "Maybe even Saturday."

"He's nothing if not stubborn," Wilson said wryly and tried to smile.

Stacy recoiled as if slapped—for half a second it seemed like he was speaking ill of the dead. But no, _no_. Greg would be fine. James said so. James wouldn't lie to her. He might bend the truth…but no, no, he wouldn't even do that. Not on an issue as important as this. Not on Greg's life.

She sighed, feeling guilty, though she knew she had no reason to. "I think he was scared of something. On Friday—when he was here—I wanted to get you to look at him and he wouldn't let me. He seemed scared then." She paused, frightened at the answer he might give to her next question. "What does he have to be afraid of?"

Wilson sighed, drawing himself up to answer. "It's hard to say at this point—"

But just as he started to speak, the E.R. doctor strode back in purposefully followed by Sanders and a nurse. Wilson leapt forward and the doctor shot him a nasty look.

"You were right," he spat, "but Dr. Sanders agrees we should wait until he reaches the floor to make that kind of decision."

With that, he turned to supervise the nurse, ignoring Wilson. Sanders glanced apologetically at Wilson, whose posture had gone rigid again, and buried his head in lab results.

Wilson stood stiffly for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists again before he relaxed. Stacy moved next to him and he started: he seemed to have forgotten she was there again. He gave her a ghost of a smile and he ducked his head to say in a low whisper, "Now I know how he makes so many enemies."

He glanced up at her and she smiled as best she could. He broke into a more convincing grin.

Sanders stepped sheepishly over to Wilson and Stacy and handed Wilson the labs.

"Nick of time," he said to Wilson.

He glanced from House to Stacy and back with barely perceptible disapproval. She could tell what he was thinking. He'd never been her favorite of Greg's colleagues.

He inclined his head briefly toward her. "Stacy," he said.

"Dan," she acknowledged, nodding back.

"Doing okay?" he asked with minimal concern.

"Fine," she said coolly.

Wilson wordlessly handed the file back.

Sanders took it. "We'll do a repeat ABG in half an hour," he said. "Sooner if necessary, but I doubt it will be. The ICU will probably be ready for him by then."

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Just until his electrolytes are back to normal," Sanders explained. "Not taking any chances."

Wilson nodded. "Shift change is coming up," he pointed out.

"I know," Sanders said. "Ang's out until Wednesday. Conference. Larson's the next-highest-up. She's good. Know her?"

Wilson shook his head.

To Stacy's annoyance, Sanders didn't ask her the same question. She couldn't have answered it anyway, so no harm done, but it still needled her. The E.R. doctor hadn't even introduced himself. Someone was going to get an earful from her about professional courtesy when this was all over. 'Patent's girlfriend' may not accord her the same status as 'patient's wife', but dammit, they were as good as married and she had a right to be consulted: he'd made her his next of kin and granted her the power to make medical decisions for him if he was unable to make them himself three years ago, so why the brusque treatment! Moreover, she _worked _here—they _knew_ she worked here. Someone would be getting quite an earful, oh yes. But worry displaced anger and it was gone the instant it had come. The ICU? It wasn't that bad, was it? Her stomach did a back flip.

"She's good," Sanders continued. "I'll introduce you when she gets here."

Wilson nodded. Stacy realized Sanders had been talking the whole time and shook herself, trying to focus, but her gaze kept shifting to the right. Greg hadn't moved. Someone had been kind enough to drape a gown over him—when had that happened?—and he seemed a little less dead now, his skin not as gray as it had been when the paramedics had taken him down the hall to the elevator and out of her reach.

As if someone else was moving, she saw herself drifting to his left side, overwhelmed by the need to hold his hand.

"Ma'am—ma'am—"

"Shut up, Morris," she heard Wilson say.

Stacy didn't hear what Morris said in return; she was focused on Greg. His hand was cold—what did that mean?—and the skin somehow looser than it should be. His fingers. She couldn't help smiling sadly, recalling the story he told about breaking his left index finger in a bizarre sailing accident while he was in medical school and faking like he'd broken his whole arm instead, going so far as to wrap it up and wear a sling, so he could get 'this total floozy' from the business school to go out with him. He claimed it hadn't worked and he'd had to come clean to one of his professors because he'd skipped a few labs using his arm as an excuse, but she'd seen him exchange a furtive glance with Wilson and knew she'd been duped in some way. He'd shown her the scar, though, and she knew that was real. 'Is this how you always pick up girls?' she'd teased. They'd been dating for over six months then. Now, caressing the small, white scar on his finger, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

And there was his ring finger. His left ring finger. No ring. They'd decided against any sort of promise ring or engaged-to-be-engaged ring—too silly—but he'd given her a turquoise ring last year for her birthday—her birthstone, 'Not the sort of thing I go in for' he'd said, but as much as he tried to hide it, he had a genuine romantic streak in him that led to him do 'lame' things like that and berate himself later for being lame—and she wore it on her right middle finger: 'To buck tradition,' she'd said, or something of the sort. She liked it when his lame side came out. It made him loveable. Without it he'd be just another arrogant jerk, and he knew it. Lame managed to get in every day in small ways—a gesture or a phrase here and there—like the way he'd given her a backrub the other night after making dinner: it was overkill and he'd known it but he'd done it anyway. 'Lame' was the way he spelled love.

He wouldn't wear a ring though. 'Gold's not my color' he'd said. She hadn't pressed him to. It wasn't really important to her. Rings were just symbols; she'd rather have the real thing. Still, his ring finger looked bare: a pale, uniform color. No ring tan line like James had. No infidelity either. Maybe they were better off without the weight of two rings between them.

The room had cleared while she'd been examining his hand and when she took notice again of the room's other occupants, she saw only James and a nurse. He looked up at her, a searching look on his face again as he if were willing her to ask him something he could answer.

"What's going to happen?" she'd asked in a small voice.

He'd said something comforting and put a hand around her shoulder: his hand was so warm, Greg's hand still so cold.

If she'd cried on him, well, he was used to that and he would never mention it if she didn't want him to. He could be a gentleman when he wanted to—when he needed to—and this was one of those times. She was grateful he'd been there.

And she grateful now that he kept checking in. Greg's hand wasn't as cold now and he looked much better—no longer gray, but still paler than he normally was—but he still wasn't waking up. She didn't know what to do… except to wait.

No one else seemed very concerned that he was still asleep—unconscious, whatever—because he was _stable_. She knew she shouldn't be annoyed at that—stable, she knew, was good—but _no change_ was wearing on her already-worn nerves and it was hard, really hard to wait. He was alive, though, and he looked comfortable; for a while, she'd been so scared that she was going to lose him. He was doing better. She'd watched the EKG go from 40 to 50 and it was holding steady now at 58. That was good. He was getting better. It was only a matter of time before he was awake and (she hoped) snarling at everyone. She just hoped that happened sooner and not later.

* * *

Wilson scraped his knuckles against his desk top. Eleven a.m. He hadn't gotten a thing done since rounds and he hadn't even been paying attention then. He knew he should just take the day off, call it a wash, but that would be admitting something was really wrong and he couldn't bring himself to do it, so instead he sat in his office with the lights off, feeling like the sunshine outside his window was mocking him.

Work was all around him in neat piles, waiting, ready to breed as soon as he turned his back. Being groomed as the great Witherspoon's successor put even more pressure on him, especially because he knew he wasn't the only one being groomed. Witherspoon's father had a wing in the hospital named after him and Witherspoon the younger didn't let anyone forget it. He was a competent doctor though (if also a boor) and Wilson could stand a round of golf with him on most days; that ability alone put him near the top of the list of candidates to become the next department head. His work ethic and the simple fact that people _liked _him, patients and colleagues alike, nudged him further up the list. Brown was his only real competition and he wasn't as well-liked, though he was already on the board and was ten years older than Wilson. But he tried not to think about any of this; if he did, he got nervous and his work suffered. Work was easy as long as it was just work. He loved it, difficult as it was, and couldn't imagine doing anything else.

Work had become complicated of late, though: two of the five or six piles on his desk had nothing to do with his specialty at all. They had everything to do with positioning himself to earn a seat on the board next to Brown: paperwork for two committees he'd joined in the past two years, hiring and research, and some ideas he had that would get him on a third this year. The transplant committee if he could swing it (and he was confident he could) and maybe the tenure committee after that. He supposed it was good form to wait until he had tenure for at least five years before going after membership on the tenure committee itself.

Besides those two piles and his other work, on his left sat another small pile. It was more of a stack, really: a letter from Who's Who about updating his profile, a letter informing him of his nomination to the Association of American Physicians, correspondence from the Children's Oncology Group about a clinical trial he was overseeing, another profile update request from the American Society of Clinical Oncology, proofs of two articles and a book review he needed to glance over and send back to three separate journals, and an invitation to a pro-am charity golf tournament in Philadelphia (how had that gotten in there?). Nothing that couldn't wait, but he wished fervently he could concentrate on any of it.

Instead, he stretched his right arm out and lay his head down on it, tracing invisible circles on the beautifully varnished desk top with his left forefinger, hoping he wouldn't be staring down a microscope later today at a biopsy of his best friend's muscle cells. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. Anything but that. A stream of images bombarded him every time he closed his eyes: survival rates for a variety of cancers, the effects of weeks of chemo, time slowly strangling hope, endless labs revealing endless complications, CT scans showing malignant cells winning the battle, trumping the median survival time, stretching the outside survival time, Greg bald, not at all made for the cue-ball look, too weak to feed himself, too weak to care, desperation turning to despair turning to defeat and finally the unimaginable. Weeks, months. Maybe years. Maybe good years, a blessing; maybe bad years, a curse.

And then the question.

Because he always expected the question.

He wasn't asked it too often in earnest. During the worst part of chemo, yes, he heard it more often than he would've liked, but the vast majority of patients who asked then didn't mean it and didn't really want it. But some did mean it. They were almost universally elderly patients who felt they were a burden on their children, though it wasn't always the elderly patients with the worst odds who asked. Some elderly patients with very favorable odds would ask. _My kids can't take care of me. This is the best way. Please, for my kids' sake, please_.

And sometimes men in early middle age with families would ask. He'd been appalled the first time he was asked though he'd known it would come eventually. Shane Middleton, 36, wife and two young daughters, stage III melanoma, decent prognosis, two-hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy, and the idea that his family would be better off with the money than with him, sick or not. _Doctor, please, I have to think of my wife and kids, I can't leave them with nothing, it's easier this way_. All he could do was explain the situation again, familiarize the patient with a DNR, and toe the line between doctor and counselor while he waited for a real counselor to turn up and take his place. It was one of the most difficult parts of his job.

But House would know all of this and if he asked, he'd mean it. Wilson had no doubt in his mind that House would ask, too, if it was advanced or if he had a poor outlook. House was rarely sympathetic when one of Wilson's patients asked to push the odds until they broke, leaving the patient and the patient's family devastated and bitter. He'd always gone with quality over quantity in everything he did.

Yes, if it came to it, House would ask. Wilson knew he would. And he would only ask once. It would be a courtesy to him, Wilson, and then he would do it himself if he was able to. He'd find a way.

House had always had a strain of Nietzsche in him: he was never willing to accept anything less than perfect from himself. He didn't expect other people to live up to his standards, yet he remained somewhat disappointed when they failed. That made him… what? An optimistic realist? A hopeful cynic? Certainly not the Ubermensch. But if it turned out to be cancer, he would accept nothing but than total remission. Anything less and Wilson would hear the question.

Wilson shook his head and sat up, sniffling a little. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Here he was burying his best friend before he knew what was wrong with him.

It could be…well, not nothing, but something else. Something less insidious. A benign growth—a cyst—causing ischemia. Deep vein thrombosis, in itself frightening because of the probability of a pulmonary embolism, a much quicker death than cancer. Compartment syndrome, which had a myriad of causes and was not pretty in terms of prognosis, seemed fairly likely. Cellulitis that had gotten out of control could be it, or necrotizing fasciitis, though nothing on the labs indicated any sort of infection, whether viral, bacterial, or fungal.

The labs—he laughed bitterly to himself. If House hadn't figured it out himself, who could tell how long it would've been before the E.R. monkeys and lab rats came up with the correct diagnosis. Sometime in the blur of the past few hours, he'd looked at House's labs from Friday. It was there—the elevated CK level, that was the tell, he'd looked it up to be sure—and no one had caught it. Suspiciously elevated. Further lab studies were indicated. It wasn't, goddammit, it wasn't a urinary tract infection, it wasn't muscle strain, and if something like necrotizing fasciitis had been suspected, it should've been investigated. But, God, he could see how the doctor had missed it. If it had been him, he might have missed it. Shit, _House_ had missed it—the guy with the diagnostics specialty who asked for X-File type cases that no one else could solve—_he _had missed it. But no, no, he couldn't blame House. How could anyone blame House? The whole thing was one big accident after another, a chain reaction of events, heaping one complication on another.

And Stacy had said this morning that she thought he was scared. That she'd wanted to call him, Wilson, in on Friday but House wouldn't let her. Because he was scared. He was scared of the same thing Wilson had been thinking about all morning. For once in his life, House had let an irrational fear overwhelm his better judgment. And the worst part was, he might've been right. Wilson might still find himself staring down a microscope before the day was out. A growth. A biopsy. Having to look. But he couldn't hand this off to Brown or another of his colleagues just because the idea of having to do the rule-out himself scared him shitless. The attitude of Morris in the E.R. this morning had shown him plainly that no one cared about House like he and Stacy did and only one of them was trained to help him medically. It would have to be him… because… it would just have to be.

But it might not come to that, still. Larson was hesitant to allow House to leave the ICU for imaging studies right now even though he was doing much better. She was conservative. He appreciated that, being relatively conservative himself. But a large part of him snarled _chickenshit, all of you, chickenshit, investigate the cause immediately, that's what he would want and you're too chickenshit to do it_. The rest of him—the part that was privy to the labs—said wait, be careful, don't inflict further damage.

He wiped his eyes. Sitting in his office letting himself get carried away by possibilities wasn't helping anyone, least of all House. It was half past eleven. His pager hadn't gone off; no change. He resolved to collect lunch for himself and Stacy—it wouldn't help House for the two of them to starve either—and…just…go from there.

He rubbed his face again and stood up, pushing his chair back. He could do this. So could Stacy. So could House.

His hands shook slightly as he adjusted his lab coat.

_Let it be benign_. _Whatever it is, let it be benign_.


	12. No Second Chances

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass. Bloc Party's lyrics belong to them.  
**Credits:** To Auditrix for beta duties.

**A/N:** Glad you guys enjoyed the last installment. Here be more. WARNING: Some language toward the end of this chapter. If language offends you, please look away.

* * *

**Chapter 11: No Second Chances**

_Summertime has come and gone  
All used up with wishful thinking  
Get sussed out, get cynical  
In this world there are no second chances_

—Bloc Party, "Always New Depths"

Stacy was examining her fingernails, trying to decide whether to paint them or not and if so, what color, because she couldn't concentrate on anything that wasn't small and inconsequential right now. Wilson had brought lunch and they'd both half-heartedly poked at it, Greg's heart rate had improved to a steady 63, and Larson, the nephro doc, was tickled pink at how much better his urine looked (for once, she understood why he was the way he was: that much excitement over pee was more than a little strange), but it was almost two p.m. and he still hadn't stirred. She'd turned to contemplating her fingernails—anything to keep fear and anxiety at bay—when she heard his breathing change. A deep breath. A _consciously taken_ deep breath.

Before she could look up, a rusty voice said, "Oh crap. I was right. I was hoping I wasn't right."

Her heart leapt into her throat and a half-laugh, half-cry came out from behind the hands she'd clamped over her mouth. There he was, looking like absolute crap, blinking heavily and tiredly, a faint grin on his pale face and that bemused glint in his eyes: awake. At last.

She was out of the chair and at the side of the bed, holding his hand so fast she didn't know how she'd gotten there. "Greg," she said squeezing his hand, "you're awake. Thank God."

"Atheist says 'what'?" he teased hoarsely, a smile spreading across his dry lips.

"You really scared me," she said squeezing his hand again, so happy when he squeezed back: it had seemed like his hand would stay limp forever. "Don't ever do that again," she said, voice choked.

"Yes ma'am," he teased hoarsely and smiled.

She held his hand up and kissed it, closing her eyes for a moment and thanking a deity she didn't believe in. Tears had somehow gotten in her eyes; she took a deep breath to steady herself and drew the chair up next to the bed, not letting his hand go for a second.

He tried to clear his throat and coughed a little. His eyes lit on a pitcher of water and he raised his eyebrows in silent questioning. She hesitated and he saw how reluctant she was to let go of his hand. Surely it wasn't that bad…

_You're overreacting_.

But before he could get the words out, she was offering him a cup of water and he was propping himself up to drink it, tossing the straw aside with a disdainful glare. He drained the cup and returned it to her, lying back down.

"Mmm, thank you," he murmured, rubbing a hand tiredly across his face. "Much better."

She smiled down at him with a look mixed with such raw fear, concern, relief, and joy that he immediately took her hand in his and patted it reassuringly with his free hand. Surely it wasn't that bad…but the way she looked…

He turned his eyes away for a moment and knew his heart rate had just shot up, but she wouldn't notice that. _Not that bad_. He ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth. "I need to brush my teeth," he said contemplatively. "They've grown fur." He turned to her, blue eyes piercing, and searched her face for some clue. He'd never been afraid of knowing something before. This wasn't a hard question to ask. The hard questions would come later, he imagined. The way she looked. He took a deep breath, trying not to seem shaken. _That bad_…

"How long was I out?" he asked, willing himself to feel nothing. It was a simple question. He wouldn't look nervous; he wouldn't look scared. He _wasn't_ nervous or scared.

"It's about 2 o'clock," she said, noting the change in his expression but not quite able to read it. He could be so good at hiding what he was thinking. She tried to keep her tone light so it would match his. "About nine hours, give or take."

"Wow," he said making an impressed face. "Guess I missed lunch."

Stacy was so happy to hear another quick come-back. He was himself; he was okay. As long as he had his humor he was all right. She shrugged. "Monday's lasagna day," she said. "Saved yourself a nasty case of heartburn."

House snorted, smile still on his face. "I would've taken the heartburn," he muttered, eyes warm.

She winced a little, unable to avoid being hurt by his words. Of course she meant— she never would've suggested— _No_, she stopped herself. He was just being himself and she was just strung out from hours of waiting. Nothing more.

She put on a smile—a sad smile, but it the best she could do. "How are you feeling?" she asked, brushing his hair back with her free hand, distraught at how limp it felt now and trying not to show it.

"Tired," he said honestly and closed his eyes for a moment. Her fingers in his hair always felt so good. He felt like sleeping again, it would be so easy, so nice to go back to sleep now…she was there with him, everything was all right… _No_. He had to know. No matter how much he didn't want to know, he had to know. But he'd restrain himself. He wouldn't bark it out or hammer the call button until he had answers.

He took her hand instead and kissed it. "Tired," he repeated, "but better. Much better. You made the right call." He smiled warmly, pushing away the thought, _if she hadn't_.

Stacy breathed out a laugh, shaky with relief. "I had to," she said. "You wouldn't stop yelling at me."

His grin turned slightly sheepish. "Sorry about that." He could tell he'd really upset her. She was always so good in a crisis situation…it must have been—but no, it wasn't that bad.

"Everyone here is amazed," she said.

He rolled his eyes: _duh_.

"More amazed than usual," she clarified, rolling her eyes too. "I'd ask how you figured it out but I doubt I'd understand it."

She reached out to touch his cheek with her free hand, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be closer to him, to know he was really okay. "You need to shave," she added.

House rubbed his face. "I do," he said, surprised at the amount of stubble he'd accumulated and aware now that it had been mentioned how much it itched. He stopped rubbing his chin and realized she was waiting for answer about how he'd reached the diagnosis. "Came to me in a dream," he said mystically.

"Well," Stacy said with a snort and an eye roll belied by her relieved smile, "not a moment too soon." Her expression softened and she kissed his hand again. "It's a good thing you were right. They won't tell me anything, but they were all on edge, especially James." All of the fear and worry from a seemingly incessant morning of waiting edged into her voice. "It was too close."

"They would've gotten it eventually," House said nonchalantly.

_That's not what James said_, Stacy thought, but she knew he knew that. Of course he knew that. He'd made the urgency of the situation abundantly clear this morning—this morning? was it really this morning? It felt like ages ago.

Sensing a pause in the conversation, House took a deep, steadying breath, feeling more awake now, and sat up a little to look around. The heart monitor was beeping steadily at 71. The oxygen mixture in his annoying nasal cannula smelled higher than he thought it should be; a quick glance at his O2 saturation rate confirmed that he was getting plenty of oxygen. He grumbled briefly to himself before continuing the check. Regular IV line; he didn't see anything but saline hanging above him. His left wrist was really sore; he glanced down. ABG. Of course. His right wrist hurt too. Multiple ABGs. No surprise there, though. He continued down and felt an expected tell-tale sensation in his lower region. He leaned over to get a look: orange. An improvement. His leg felt…heavy. Like it wasn't really there. It didn't hurt. He couldn't feel any dressing against his skin or any sore spots…but that was for later. Right now, he looked good. He felt good. Too good to be cooped up in the ICU.

He lay back again and looked at her. "I look good," he said aloud, satisfied with his present condition.

She took his right hand in hers and kissed it. "I know," she said smiling.

"Good enough that I shouldn't be on this floor," he said and pressed the call button.

"Greg, you don't know how bad it was," she protested, though she knew he'd do something like this. "It's too soon."

He brushed her off with empty platitudes, looking expectantly at the open door and the nurse coming toward it.

"I'd like to speak to my doctor," he said to her. "And bring me my chart."

He expected a rebuttal or an attempt to coddle him, but she merely nodded curtly and said, "I'll call her."

Well. She seemed to think he was okay too. …or had she been on the receiving end of another of Stacy's rants? He didn't doubt it.

"Have you been talking to them?" House asked with an approving grin.

"James has," she said. "Speeding to his friend's apartment at five in the morning makes him cranky apparently. Who knew?"

House snorted and scratched vacantly at one of the EKG leads on his chest. "He's not going to let me forget that one. He'll pick something simple, too, like saying I owe him lunch for a year. Daily reminder."

"Do you have to be irascible all the time?" she asked. "He saved your neck."

"_You_ saved my neck," House replied, "but you won't go asking for something like that."

"Because I've already got it," she said meaningfully.

"So does he!" House protested.

"Men!" Stacy said to herself. "What is it about having a penis that inclines you to measure and compare all the time?"

House sniffed. "You're working on a case of penis envy Freud himself would be proud of," he said.

"I have only one word for you, mister," she said, the devilish gleam that meant trouble he was going to like a whole lot back in her eyes. "Inadequacy."

"Ohhh," House replied, "that hits hard below the belt." He looked at the ceiling. "When will I learn?" he said to himself. "_Never_ fight with girls. They don't play fair."

He glanced at Stacy quickly and smiled, then craned his neck, looking through the glass wall toward the nurse's station. The nurse who'd come in earlier was on the phone and two others were milling about.

"Would you go get my chart?" he asked.

Her left eyebrow went up. "Impatient?"

"I've been very patient considering what a terrible patient I am," House said. "C'mon," he wheedled, "I'd get it myself but I'm sick and…" he considered how best to put it, holding up his arm to illustrate his point, really thinking of the Foley, "tethered." He put on his best exaggerated puppy dog expression.

Stacy rolled her eyes and stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her suit. "Yes, master," she said. "You wish is my command."

"That's right," he said as she rolled her eyes and left the room.

He dug around until he found the bed control and raised the head of the bed up until he could see his surroundings more easily. Much better. He glanced at a monitor to his left—98—and pulled the oxygen cannula out of his nose. Hospital air smelled much better than canned O2. He sniffed hopefully at the air to his right but couldn't detect any perfume. Damn. That would've been a nice smell to catch in the air after metallic, stinging oxygen.

He saw Stacy talking to one of the nurses. Good. He really needed to look at his chart. He was going nuts, not knowing what was wrong with him. His leg. He could feel that something was seriously wrong, primarily because he couldn't feel part of it. He felt around under the blanket, checking again for any sign of invasive treatment. No dressing, no surgery.

What caused ischemia but wasn't operable?

Infection.

They would've treated that already.

A tumor.

He shuddered. _No_. _Not cancer_.

Then again, he was currently parked in the ICU and Stacy had said _it _was bad…it…_it_ what? His electrolytes had been seriously messed up—that could produce frightening symptoms. He remembered slow heart rate he'd felt before he passed out, but his chest didn't hurt so the arrhythmia must have been corrected chemically: no scary-looking equipment involved. She was smart, though, and she knew how to read people, especially Wilson. And if Wilson had been worried… Maybe they hadn't fixed it yet. And maybe—he glowered mentally at the idea—maybe they hadn't figured it out at all yet. He seriously hoped that wasn't the case. Not after all the incompetence he'd already endured.

He realized suddenly, just as Stacy returned to the room, that they hadn't even biopsied his leg. So they _hadn't_ done anything. He cursed to himself as he took the chart.

"What is it?" she asked, standing next to him with worried look on her face.

"They haven't checked my leg out at all, have they?" he asked in a flat tone. The question was almost rhetorical since he had his chart now. He didn't look up at her. Labs, diagnostic notes, treatment notes, recommendations, results, more labs, more notes. Wow. He _had _been in bad shape. "Biopsy? MRI? CT scan? Anything?"

"No," Stacy said, brow furrowed. "Nothing. You were really sick."

House glanced at the remaining sheets—he'd improved rapidly, looking good, boring: that told him nothing—and shoved the chart at her in frustration. "Not that sick," he growled.

He was struggling to get up when a short, stout woman he recognized all-too-well breezed into the room. Larson. He didn't like her very much. Too peppy.

"Dr. House," she said brightly. "Nice to have you back with us."

She grasped House's hand and shook it, ignoring the fact that he was trying to get up and leave. "Feeling better now that your lytes aren't out of whack I bet," she said and smiled at Stacy. "Seen your chart, huh?" she said as Stacy offered it to her. "New labs to add." She brandished the papers. "Your creatine kinase level is still through the roof but your BUN and creatinine levels have both dropped significantly since you were admitted thanks to quick alkalinization—how'd you figure that out, by the way? probably saved yourself an hour's worth of damage or more—so I don't think you'll have much if any permanent kidney damage."

House, who'd lain back down while she spoke and let a sneer distort his features, tried to interrupt her throughout, finally succeeding when she stopped to take a breath.

"I know all that," he said, waving his hand impatiently. "What I'm more interested in is the source of the problem, i.e., my leg."

"We were waiting until you were in the clear to get—"

"I'm in the clear," House said angrily. "I've been in the clear." He propped himself up on his elbows, flushing with anger. "Run the tests," he said. "Now. Imaging studies until you find it, starting with an MRI. I assume you've already checked out bacterial and viral causes—"

Larson nodded.

"—and they're negative."

Larson nodded again.

"Too severe to be metabolic," House continued. "I assure you there's no trauma, though I'd like to think you actually examined me and came to that conclusion yourself, and I haven't been knocking back ethanol, though I know the labs told you I'm negative for it." The volume of his voice rose and it picked up speed as he spoke. "I'm thinking severe ischemia, I'm thinking thrombosis or tumor, I'm thinking my leg started hurting Thursday and _no one_ caught it, and I'm thinking lawsuit unless you move your ass RIGHT NOW." He glared hard and let himself fall back, tired.

Larson squeaked.

"You're scheduled for an MRI and a CT scan in a half an hour," she said meekly. She tried to pep back up. "Good thing you woke up when you did," she said trying to be cheery. She'd never liked House.

"Yeah, that's great, but I know you can get me in now, so go do it," House growled. "If you're not back here in ten minutes with a wheelchair, I'm getting up and going down there as I am even if I have to crawl."

Larson squeaked again and nodded. "I'll go do that," she said backing quickly out of the room.

"Spineless," House muttered after her and rubbed his face again. Tired. His body had taken a beating, though, so it wasn't surprising.

"You don't have to be so mean," Stacy reproved, sitting back down next to him.

"They should've had these scans done hours ago," he said angrily. "I was never bad enough that they couldn't take me down there."

"You just read your chart," she pointed out. "I saw your face. You know that's not true."

"Who's the doctor here?" he snapped. She glared at him and he glared back for a moment. He sighed angrily, knowing she was right, and waved an apologetic hand. He wasn't mad at her. "They were just treating the symptoms—doing nothing to find the cause," he said, voice full of frustration. "The symptoms aren't going to magically disappear just because you throw a few chemicals at them."

"He lives!"

Two pairs of eyes snapped to the door to find a smiling James Wilson greeting them.

"I could hear you all the way down the hall," he said as he entered the room.

He squeezed Stacy's shoulder, exchanging a brief, meaningful look with her, then moved to the bed, holding his hand out to House.

House clapped it and squeezed hard, smiling broadly. "Barbaric conditions, man, sheer barbarism." He noticed Wilson had ditched the lab coat and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow already. His tie was loose. It _was_ bad.

"He must be feeling better," Wilson said to Stacy, "he's complaining already."

Wilson turned back to House, their hands still locked together. "And you. Never do that again." His smile turned shaky. "Next time you want out of a match, _fake_ your death and save yourself the trouble of nearly dying."

"You're just pissed because Nate gave you an earful," House said. He squeezed Wilson's hand again, hard, and let it go. "So what's this about pussyfooting over a few scans? Tell me you weren't a part of that."

"You weren't there—okay, you were there but not really," Wilson said. "Caution was the order of the day."

"That's crap," House said.

Wilson turned to Stacy. "Oh yeah, he's back."

"Will you two stop that," House said. "Go steal a wheelchair from one your dying kids, pronto. I need to be microwaved now."

He pushed himself up until he was sitting, left leg drawn up, right leg still stretched out.

Wilson watched him, noting how he moved. "Did Larson look at your leg?"

"Of course not," House said, clearly annoyed. "Nephrologists don't give a damn about limbs."

"Let me look at it first, okay?" Wilson said, hands on his hips. "Then I'll go knock someone out of their wheelchair. Physical exam comes first, remember?"

"Should've been done _hours_ ago," House muttered, hand going to his hair, then rubbing his face. "Barbarism," he repeated.

"Uh, hello, you just woke up," Wilson said. "Consciousness kinda makes a difference when evaluating pain, sensation, uh, nearly everything."

House rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw: _if you must_.

Wilson's eyes flickered to Stacy.

"She stays," House said immediately.

Wilson gave him a long, searching look. House returned it without backing down and flipped the blanket away, exposing his leg. When he did look down, he blurted an obscenity.

"How long has it looked like _that_!" he asked. His leg was ashen grey, several shades paler than the rest of him.

"You see why we were being cautious," Wilson said.

"No, this is all the more reason to get a scan asap," House said angrily.

"Let's do this first and argue about it later, okay?" Wilson said. He nodded at House. "Whenever you're ready."

House glared at him again to register his annoyance, then stretched his left leg out again until it was flat against the mattress, gripped the bed rails, and tried to draw his right leg up. He grunted with effort but couldn't lift it past a certain point. His physiology training told him which muscles weren't working, though he knew ahead of time that his thigh was the problem.

"How does it feel?" Wilson asked, watching House closely for any sign of discomfort.

"Asleep," House said in a flat tone, staring blankly at his thigh. "Heavy. Dead. It tingles a little, but I can't feel most of it."

"The whole thing?" Wilson asked, trying to conceal his concern.

"No," House said, still staring at his leg. "Just the thigh. The quad." He drew an invisible oval around the area. "There."

"All of that?" Wilson said incredulously. That was most of the muscle group.

House nodded, trying not to look as scared as he felt.

"All right," Wilson said. "Lift it up with your hands. Bend it at the knee. Okay?"

House grabbed his leg under the knee pulled it up, left hand on the bed rail to keep himself balanced. He started struggling, unable to pull it all the way up, and Wilson carefully helped him until his foot was planted on the mattress. House kept staring blankly at his leg like it wasn't a part of him any longer, as though it had become an alien attachment that was hindering him. That wasn't his leg. His leg worked. He felt himself start to panic—_muscle death, widespread muscle death_—and pushed it down.

Wilson let go of House's leg.

"Did that hurt at all?" Wilson asked.

"No," House answered hollowly. "No change." He wiggled his toes and noticed a delay in sending the order out and having it filled. _Impaired circulation, damaged nerves, dead muscle_. His mind flashed options, most of which ended in him missing his right leg entirely. He tried to focus on the present instead. "It's uncomfortable but it doesn't hurt."

House and Wilson both noticed at the same time that House was still holding his leg in place.

Their eyes met.

"Let go," Wilson said, voice strained.

House did and from the hip to the knee, his leg sagged to the right. He tried to correct it, grunting with effort, feeling muscles near his hip joint and groin strain to hold the limb straight, and didn't stop until his leg was visibly shaking.

"That's enough," Wilson said and reached out to support it with his hand.

House let out the breath he'd been holding as he concentrated on making his muscles work and fell back on his elbows, breathing hard. "Shit," he said. "I was right again." He looked anxiously from Wilson to Stacy, realization and fear naked on his face. "Shit."

"Try to straighten it back out," Wilson said, not willing to believe what he saw.

"I can't," House said pitifully.

"Try," Wilson challenged.

"What's going on?" Stacy interjected. She knew something was wrong—he couldn't move his leg very well—but they were both acting like they'd discovered something life-threatening.

"You do it," House said petulantly and flopped back against the mattress, angrily shutting himself off, ignoring both Stacy and Wilson.

Wilson carefully extended House's leg until it was safely on the mattress again. He sighed deeply and glanced at House. House glared back angrily, then looked away: _you tell her_.

"The muscle in his thigh is compromised," Wilson said slowly, reluctantly meeting Stacy's gaze. "Severely compromised from the look of things." He blew out a breath and looked down, left hand going to the back of his neck.

"Say it," House mumbled, head turned away from them.

"It's dead," Wilson said softly, eyes on the floor. "It seems to be dead."

"No 'seems to be'," House snapped, turning back to them. "It's dead. That's it. MRI it now. _Now_. Every second that we wait…"

"Yeah," Wilson said quietly, gaze still fixed on the floor. He shook himself, snapping out of the daze he was in. "Do you know Lisa Cuddy?" he asked.

"Unless she works in radiology, I don't really care right now," House said, bitterness and anger vying for primacy in his voice.

"Do you?" Wilson pressed.

"Should I?" House sneered. "She's the associate dean. I try to stay as far away from management as I can."

"She's also the former head of vascular," Wilson said. "She's good. Obviously, you have your pick, but once the administration hears about this—and knowing you, that will be very soon—they'll want someone on damage control. McAllister's out of town—he's a gastro guy anyway—so she'll be paying you a visit either way. I'd recommend her."

"Fine," House said, "whatever."

"Damn right she's going to be hearing about this," Stacy muttered. Both men looked at her. "I was waiting for you to wake up before I went to anyone," she explained.

"Huh," House said, "I _knew_ something was missing. The smell of litigation," he said, inhaling deeply, "invigorating."

"I have to do _something_," Stacy said. "This is the definition of malpractice."

"Let's wait until we know what's wrong before we—"

"Greg," Stacy said warningly.

Wilson held up his hands and started backing out of the room. "You guys work this out between yourselves," he said in a strained voice. "I'm going to go knock an old man out of his wheelchair."

House banged his left fist hard against the mattress and cursed loudly.

"You're scared," Stacy said softly.

"I'm pissed off," he all but shouted. "I'm really pissed the hell off. They fucked up big time."

"But you're okay now," she said vehemently, "and you weren't earlier. Whatever it is, it's not killing you anymore."

"It's not dying I'm worried about," he said, grinding his teeth and staring at the ceiling.

"Then what is it?" she said. "Look at me. Greg."

He turned to her, face red with anger.

She stared him down. "You know," she said. "I know you know. I know you've thought of all the hundreds of things it could be and you've got a few you think it is, or maybe just one. Tell me." She tried to take his hand but he jerked it away. "Tell me what you think it is."

He looked away, frustrated and annoyed.

"Okay," she said. "My knowing won't help the fact that you know. You're still burdened with knowledge and it sucks. But if you tell me, I can help."

He gave her an angry, doubting glance and looked away again.

"I can—hold your hand and tell you things you know aren't true," she said haltingly. "I'd do that anyway. But I'm going to be anxious until you tell me and that's not going to help you at all."

"I don't know anything," House said, cold rage in his voice. "I don't know anything because _they_ don't know anything because _they_ really fucked up." He slammed his left fist into the mattress again. "They should've done this _hours_ ago. They should know what it is and be treating it." He took a deep breath, so angry that he felt like strangling someone. "Goddammit!" he shouted, "Every second counts!"

"Why?" Stacy asked, close to tears, anxiety overcoming her again. "What's wrong?"

"Muscle doesn't grow back," House snarled. "Once it's gone, it's gone and it's never coming back."

"What does that mean?" she asked despairingly. "Why are you so upset? If it's just your leg—"

"It's not just my leg!" he snapped.

"Where else is it?" she asked in a small, frightened voice.

"I don't know," House said, grinding his teeth again. "Maybe nowhere. That's why I need the damn MRI."

"So it may be just in your leg—"

"It's not just a leg, okay?" he snapped. "It may only be in the leg, but it's not just a leg, it's _my _leg."

"Greg," she said calmly, "what are you trying to say?"

He expelled an angry, frustrated breath and looked away.

"They might have to cut off my leg," he said, not looking at her. "Whatever it is, it's in the thigh. The whole leg." He paused and turned his head back to her, his eyes meeting hers. "They'd have to take the whole leg. All of it."

Stacy let out a sigh and looked down.

"I know," he said, reading it as a gesture of disappointment, "it really sucks." He blew out a shaky breath, anger fading, knowing that he had no right to take this out on her. "It really, really sucks." He covered his face with his hands, shaking. "Oh God, it sucks so much."

Her head snapped up. "Are you kidding?" she said incredulously. His hands fell away and he looked at her uncomprehendingly. "This is great news!" she exclaimed and took his hand in both of hers and kissed it. "I thought you were going to die, but if it's just you're leg, you'll be all right. Oh my God, I am so relieved."

"You don't get it," House snapped, snatching his hand back. "My whole leg! All of it! Gone! I'll have a bloody fucking stump!"

"You'll be alive!" she exclaimed. "Doesn't that matter to you! It's just a leg! Legs are replaceable; you're not!"

"Easy for you to say," he growled. "You're not the one whose life has just been seriously fucked."

"You're alive," she said, unable to understand why he was so upset. He almost died this morning and now he was fine. "Isn't that enough?"

"It shouldn't have to be," he said through clenched teeth and looked away again.

Stacy sighed. "Okay," she said. "This is getting us nowhere."

They both paused, neither looking at the other.

"You said might," she said after a moment. "Might also means might not."

"It does," he grudgingly conceded, "but until the results come back…I don't know. There's no way to know."

"Do you want me to call your parents?" she asked. "I know you have your issues, but your mother would want to know."

"No," House said. "They can't do anything. It's pointless… it'll only— No. Don't worry them."

"They've only got one son," she said. "Are you—"

"Yes, I'm sure," he interrupted. "Knowing them, they're in Finland or Estonia or the fucking South Pacific living it up. There's no point."

Stacy started to protest again.

"End of discussion," House said. "I don't want to hear any more about it."

Stacy allowed him that. They were his parents after all.

House grabbed both rails and pulled himself up. "Give me a hand," he said. "If they're not back by the time I'm up, I'm walking down there. Limping. Whatever."

She gave him a disapproving look but helped him anyway. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, right leg dangling off the side, wondering if he could lean back far enough to reach the Foley bag on the other side of the bed when Larson showed up with a wheelchair and Wilson tailing her.

Larson set about readying him for a ride to radiology while Wilson stood by, looking helpless.

"I paged Dr. Cuddy," he said. "If she doesn't call back in ten minutes, I'm going down there."

House nodded his approval. Larson signaled that he was ready and Wilson went to his right side without saying a word. House put his arm around Wilson's shoulders and hoisted himself up.

When he was standing, right foot just touching the floor, the ball and heel connecting lightly, he paused for a moment, glancing at Wilson.

Wilson read his body language and took his left hand, ready to duck from under House's right arm when House gave the signal.

"Now," House said and took his weight off of Wilson as Wilson moved just enough to let House try to stand on his own, hand tensing on House's left wrist in case House fell.

House laughed shortly. He could do it. He could stand. He could stand on his own.

Everyone in the room let out the breath they'd been holding.

Wilson let go of House's left hand and positioned the wheelchair so House would only have to pivot on his left foot and take a small step to the right to sit down. House turned, taking the hand Stacy offered on his right side, and managed the small step, catching himself as he fell, then let Wilson help him lower himself into the chair.

He went limp with relief for a moment, head falling forward, letting a deep breath out. Larson had picked up on the problem and bent to lift House's right foot on to the foot rest. House stayed as he was for a moment longer, then lifted his head and looked from Stacy on his right to Wilson behind him on his left, relieved, nearly smiling and very determined.

"Let's go," he said and they started forward.


	13. Out, Out!

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass. Shakespeare's lines belong to him and whoever else holds the copyright to them.

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews. In the whole five minutes I have of not grading, planning, or teaching class, or doing homework for the classes I'm taking, I managed to get this done (I don't like this having a job thing; work is hard). Hope to have more soon, but the way my schedule looks, I don't know how soon 'soon' will be. If I can get a few moments, I'll have a new chapter of Some Days up – hopefully this week. But the season premiere is tomorrow, so you've got something else to pay attention to now:)

Any reviews would be really appreciated. They make my day. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Out, Out**

_And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
__The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle!  
__Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
__That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
__And then is heard no more_

—_Macbeth_, Shakespeare, V.5

_Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk_.

He lay absolutely still, breathing shallowly even though it was his leg getting the work-up.

Wilson had kept Stacy outside for this one. He hadn't had to try very hard: as soon as House was in the room and getting set up to move from the wheelchair to the table, she'd asked him quickly with her eyes and he'd said immediately, 'Go.'

She and Wilson had exchanged something he didn't quite catch all of, but the gist of it was that she would go bark at Cuddy while he stayed. That made sense. Wilson could read an MRI; Stacy couldn't. Stacy could make the legal implications crystal clear; Wilson would be more interested in talking medicine. Ideally, they both would have gone but he understood why they didn't want to leave him alone, and while he resented the implication that he couldn't take care of himself, in truth, he really didn't want to be left alone right now. He had been silently grateful that Wilson was there when he tried to lever himself out of the chair and onto the table alone. Wilson had understood that he needed to try it unassisted first.

He had done it, too. Wilson had parked him so that the table was directly to his right and all he had to do was stand on his left foot and use the table to support himself. It was low to the ground for him: he didn't have to put his right foot on the floor at all.

He would have liked to have tried—he'd realized on the ride down to radiology that he hadn't really been standing in his room: he'd been balanced on his left foot and his right foot had taken none of his weight until he tried the small step to his right and pitched over momentarily, shuffling his left foot and letting Stacy take some of his weight to keep him from falling: he'd done nothing substantive, it hadn't been a real victory—but time was of the essence right now and he wasn't going to waste it trying to put weight on his right foot.

They would be nearly done now. He ran over the kind of section cuts they would be doing: thickness, angles, views. He knew Wilson would be very thorough, but basic reasoning told him that the longer the scan went on, the more complicated the problem was.

It might be small and difficult to find: fine cuts would be necessary. It might be shaped strangely and Wilson would need views from several angles to map it out. And it could just be big and they'd need several views to see how much damage it was doing to the surrounding blood vessels and nerves. That made the most sense to him; that was the most straightforward conclusion: it was big and it was positioned such that it was cutting off an artery.

It could be that simple. It had been there for a long time—months probably, growing—and when he'd shifted his weight to his right leg on the golf course last week, it had moved. Touched a nerve probably—that was what had brought him down—and then started moving in on an artery. The muscle had begun to die and by Friday afternoon, enough of it had broken down that it was visible in his urine. The elevated CK level had been there. He hadn't seen the number—he'd skipped over his old labs when he read his chart earlier—and it didn't matter now. What was important now was knowing how big it was and—he fought the emotions that had become tied to this thought over the past few days—whether it was benign.

"Okay, Dr. House," the tech said in a smooth voice, "we're done. You can relax now."

He sat up and saw Wilson coming out of the booth. Normally Wilson was easy to read. Right now, House wasn't sure what his expression meant, except that it wasn't all good or all bad. More like it was confusing him, which meant more tests to unconfuse him. Great.

"What did you find?" he asked as Wilson approached.

"No masses," Wilson said gravely.

House could tell he was trying not to show it, but his face betrayed anxiety. He was holding something back.

"Well?" House said impatiently. "You obviously found _something_ or you wouldn't be looking at me like that."

"I'm not sure what it was," Wilson said, "except that it's not cancer." House saw him hesitate. "Dr. Cuddy should look at it first."

"So it's vascular?" House said, turning to his left to get off of the table. He looked up at Wilson. "It's a clot?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

When Wilson didn't answer immediately and his eyes shifted slightly from meeting House's to the table, House realized his right leg hadn't moved with his body and he was twisted to his left while his leg was still lying straight on the table.

He looked away, wishing Wilson wasn't here to see this. He had to use his hands to pick it up and move it. Heavy. He grunted as he moved it so that it hung over the side of the table at the knee. This was a normal position. Like sitting on a bench. Like sitting in a chair. Like sitting on a couch. Both legs bent at the knee, connecting with the floor, waiting for him to tell them to move.

Move. _Move. Move!_

Nothing.

He concentrated hard on swinging his foot. He could do this. The nerves were okay. He could move his foot. He could do it. He was starting to sweat, concentration showing on his face. There. It moved. A little. Only a little, but it _had_ moved. He could feel his muscles strain: picking up the slack.

Muscular. Of course it was muscular. He'd known that since last Thursday.

Nerves?

He tried to wiggle his toes. Yes. No problem. Didn't have to break a sweat. His nerves were okay. Some of them, anyway.

He tried moving his foot from side to side. Yes. Difficult, but he could do it without concentrating too hard.

Wilson shifted at the edge of his field of vision. Oh. Right. He was sitting in radiology trying to determine the utility of his leg when he didn't even know what the problem was yet.

"Clot?" he asked again, voice wavering, looking down at the thigh peeking out from under his too-short gown. It was quickly becoming a useless mass of dead flesh. Dead flesh attached to his living flesh. Grey-white dead dying flesh. Muscle turning white, turning yellow, turning purple, turning black. Black. Rotting. Stinking. Dead. Dead? Dying. Yes, dying. But fully dead? Oh God.

"I think so," Wilson said, cutting into his thoughts, "but Cuddy will be able to tell for sure."

He needed to see the film. Now. He'd seen his labs; he'd tested his leg; he knew what he was looking for.

He stared at his leg for a moment longer, unwilling to break the gaze, because he knew that this might be one of the last times he'd look down and see his leg. He felt cold and sick. Dead dying flesh and it was just sitting there. He was just sitting there. He needed to see the film. He looked up at Wilson.

"Can I—whoa," a wave of dizziness cut him off and Wilson automatically reached out to grab his shoulder. House shook his head and blinked hard. "I'm okay," he said and brushed Wilson's hand off. "Just dizzy. Tired."

"You've been off the IV for too long," Wilson said. He held his hand out, offering to help House back into the wheelchair.

House let Wilson half pick him up and guide him through the stuttering, faltering two steps until he was seated again. He felt himself swaying, but he had to look at those films.

"I'd like to—agh," he shook his head again, dizzy. His limbs felt too heavy to hold up and he gave up, slumping in the chair, eyes shut tightly, willing the room to stop spinning and wobbling. "I'd like to take a look at it," he said when the feeling finally passed.

But Wilson was already wheeling him out of the room. "You can see it after Cuddy does," he said.

House coughed a little, limp in the chair. He was so damn tired all of a sudden. This wasn't right. His lytes wouldn't become imbalanced so quickly that he couldn't hold his head up on his own after only forty minutes off the feed…right? Shit. _Shit_. It was a clot. It was _major_ muscle damage, _major_ necrosis to have him so messed up in such a short amount of time.

Black white yellowing purple necrotic mass radiating in his muscle, cells choking on carbon dioxide, dying, never to be brought back, releasing their now-dead life material into his bloodstream and on toward his failing kidneys, muddying his brain with sludge, dross, detritus, cast-off dying last gasps. Dead dying black white yellowing crap killing his life, parts that he couldn't get back, dead and dying and dead and dying and dead…

"House?" he heard Wilson say from somewhere above him. "You still with me?"

He jumped. What?

"Yeah," he said into his chest.

Jesus, the shot of adrenaline that had caused. He felt it wearing off quickly. Good. He wanted to sleep. He couldn't remember why exactly, but he felt like he'd die if he didn't sleep soon.

"Good," Wilson said. His voice was booming and far away. "Don't pass out on me. We're almost there."

Oh. Don't pass out.

"Yeah," he said again into his chest.

Don't pass out. Why? Some reason. He didn't feel like he was passing out…just like he was going to sleep. He was so tired and sleep was so enticing: so nice and so warm. So easy. There was something…some reason…that was significant…why he shouldn't be passing out…or going to sleep…or whatever…whatever…

The next thing he knew, Wilson was talking to him and attaching that annoying nasal cannula to his face again.

"Hey, House, hey, you there?" Wilson said, his brown eyes and boyish face swimming into focus.

House blinked hard. He hadn't passed out—he didn't remember passing out—but he definitely hadn't been there a second earlier.

"Yeah," he said.

"Okay, good," Wilson said.

With effort, House discerned that he was still in the chair. Back in his room, parked by the bed. Wilson was reattaching the IV.

Oh. Right. Electrolytes. That.

"You need another ABG," Wilson said, squatting in front of him. "I can do it now or I can get a nurse to do it in a few minutes. Which would you prefer?"

"You do it," House said faintly, his gaze settling somewhere above Wilson's right shoulder and hanging there. Blinking was a real effort right now.

"Okay," Wilson said, his face full of concern.

He waved a hand in front of House's face and House started, blinked hard, and looked at Wilson. Wilson had a look in his eyes that House recognized: it was that wary, 'is he really all there?' look. He'd worn that look often, peering down at a patient. House raised his eyebrows and blinked again as if to say 'what do you want?' and Wilson's brows furrowed. He stood up and disappeared from House's limited field of vision—the patch of grey-green wall and floor in front of him—returning gloved and ready.

House blinked hard again and turned to his left to see Wilson picking up a syringe.

"Skip the lido," House said dully.

Wilson's eyebrows jumped. "It'll hurt," he pointed out, not putting the syringe down.

House shifted his gaze back to the wall. "I'm fine," he said in a grating voice.

Wilson paused for a moment, as if arguing with himself, and put the syringe down. "Whatever you say," he said to himself.

House detected a hint of sarcasm but he didn't have the energy or will to start a fight over Wilson's tone of voice.

It took him a moment to realize that Wilson was turning his left hand over. He looked up dumbly as Wilson took his right hand. What? He looked down to see what Wilson was looking at and noticed puncture wounds. Oh. Radial artery. ABG. Need an artery for that. He realized that both of his wrists ached.

"Okay," Wilson said, ignoring House's reaction, "I think you've got one good stick left in the left, maybe two in the right." He cursed. "I told them this morning to put an a-line in."

House watched him. Wilson didn't curse too often and he couldn't pull off looking angry very well. More than anything, his attempt to express anger looked funny to House.

House realized slowly that Wilson was gazing expectantly at him. Oh. Right. He was being given the choice.

"Do the left," he said, unconsciously bending his left hand. Ow. "It already hurts."

He could feel Wilson's incredulous stare. "Sure about the lidocaine?" Wilson asked lightly.

"Just do it," House said tiredly.

To his credit, he didn't flinch while Wilson collected the arterial blood. He was still out of it and while he registered that it hurt, he didn't really feel it.

"Hold that," Wilson said. House was bewildered for a moment before he realized Wilson was pressing a thick piece of gauze against his wrist. He noticed Wilson sizing him up again and pressed down on the gauze pad. The words 'pressure bandage' came to mind but he didn't know what to do with them. He pressed harder, looking down at his wrist.

When Wilson didn't leave immediately to test the sample, House glanced up at him. Oh. So he'd decided on a pressure bandage. Wilson thought he wasn't all there.

"I've got it," House said, pressing harder.

"Humor me," Wilson said without pausing or looking up.

House said nothing and sat still while Wilson bandaged his wrist.

"You're looking shocky, House," Wilson said as he finished placing the bandage.

"Yeah," House said, his gaze back on the patch of wall beyond Wilson's shoulder. He felt pretty shocky and wasn't going to argue the point with Wilson.

"I'm gonna let you sit here for a while and soak up the sodium, okay?" Wilson said. "Deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth."

"I'm okay," House said but he found himself obeying. Because that was what you did in this situation, not because that was what Wilson told him to do.

He wasn't sure how long Wilson was gone and it didn't really matter in the end. All he knew was that he kept almost falling asleep, always waking up a second before unconsciousness hit. He felt numb and tired, completely used up, unable to keep his eyes open.

Wilson's footsteps snapped him out of the embrace of sleep yet again and he wrenched his eyes open. Wilson was a blurry mass of white topped off with a smear of brown. He registered a change in Wilson's height and blinked hard to sharpen the lines of the squatting shape in front of him.

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked.

"Tired," House said. "I need to lie down." Sleeping, he considered, would be easier that way.

"Any pain?" Wilson asked.

"My wrist hurts," House said. He blinked again and could make out Wilson smiling wryly. "No," he added softly, "no pain."

"Okay," Wilson said nonchalantly and stood up. "Ashley's going to help me get you on the bed."

House blinked. Ashley? He glanced to his right and saw a tall, plain nurse standing a few feet from him. He didn't remember hearing her come in.

"Whenever you're ready," Wilson said, a step away from House.

House realized slowly that they were waiting for him to do something. Oh. Right. He grasped his right leg just above the knee and lifted his foot off of the foot rest. His leg was so heavy, he had trouble picking it up. The floor was cold. He could feel that, how cold the floor was. _Nerves are intact, nerves are intact, nerves intact_. Though he'd done this test on himself already, it was still a relief.

He moved his left foot to the floor and took a moment to gather energy and focus, hands poised on the chair's arm rests. Blood pounded against the bandage on his wrist and his left arm shook though it hadn't taken any of his weight yet. Every ounce of his concentration and strength was necessary to keep him from falling back in the chair and giving up. He was just so tired and drained. He pushed up, trying to rely on his upper-body strength, and felt his muscles strain and begin to give. Then two pairs of hands were under his arms helping him make it all the way up and the half-step to his left necessary to connect his backside with the mattress. He sagged. Wilson's grip alone kept him from falling horizontally across the mattress. He collected himself, planted the palms of his hands, and swung his left leg up. His right leg wouldn't move. The nurse gently picked up his leg before it could twist too far in its socket and hurt him. Between the two of them, Wilson and Ashley got him settled quickly.

He closed his eyes, completely limp. Wilson said something to the nurse that he didn't catch. He felt time pass.

"House?" he heard Wilson say softly. Was it that Wilson was talking softly or was the pounding in his ears drowning Wilson out?

"What the hell is wrong with me," he murmured, eyes still closed.

"You're bradychardic," Wilson said. "51. Your lytes are out of balance again. I'm going to give you a sodium bicarb booster—Ashley is getting it—and you should feel better in about half an hour." He heard Wilson smack the bed rail decisively. "Take a nap."

A nap sounded good. But his electrolytes shouldn't have gotten so messed up in under an hour...he was in serious trouble…

"Too fast," he whispered.

"Too fast?" Wilson echoed confusedly. There was a pause. House had stopped thinking coherently enough to elaborate. "Oh," Wilson said. "Yeah, it was fast. But you saw your labs. And even if you have been improving all day, Stacy said you slept all weekend. It's going to be a while before you get your stamina back." House felt him slap the bed rail again. "You'll have to come to the gym with me and build it up again when you're better."

Wilson's voice sounded sunny and optimistic, but House perceived a tinge of worry and doubt. Wilson was lying.

Lots of things were wrong with that statement, too, House knew, but he couldn't articulate them to himself much less to Wilson. He made a noise to indicate his disagreement, but Wilson must have misinterpreted it because House heard him say something to the effect of 'get some rest' and then the overhead light went off.

_No_, he wanted to protest, _what's wrong with me? What do you know? What aren't you telling me?_ but he was too tired to speak. Time stretched out, he had plenty of time to sleep and he'd be better when he woke up, but time also closed in, suffocating, destroying, killing, fleeing and he'd never get back what he lost right now in this second. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. It would be so nice to sleep, he so wanted to sleep. If he slept, it would be okay.

The room was dim. Cool and nice on his arms and chest. Warm where his legs were. Comfortable. Oxygen in his nose again. His left wrist ached. Quiet. Safe. Sinking. Warm, numb sleep.

Sleep would make it better. Dim, cool, soft, sweet sleep.

* * *

Wilson watched House fade, his face and body going lax as he gave in to sleep, and slumped under the tension of the last hour. He rubbed his forehead tiredly and let out a weary sigh. He stared fixedly at the blanket, hands on the rail of the bed. Ashley quietly slipped in with the sodium bicarbonate and administered it, then left as noiselessly as she had come. Wilson barely noticed her. 

Despite the hours of continual improvement, House's kidneys were still compromised. Because, as far as Wilson could tell from the MRI, a clot in his femoral artery was blocking blood flow and muscle necrosis not only had occurred but was still occurring. If he had shut down physically after less than an hour off intravenous electrolyte support, the muscle cell death was widespread. Very widespread. Add to that, the leg couldn't support his weight and although he still had sensation in his foot, meaning the nerves were more or less intact, a lot of muscle was dead already. And having the leg attached was killing him.

He'd been right this morning; he'd made the correct diagnosis. The only problem was that he'd made it three days too late. The safest treatment right now was amputation. It was clean and it would spare his already weakened kidneys. He would make a full recovery if they amputated. But Wilson knew him. He'd known him for a long time. House wouldn't consent to amputation while he had other viable options. And at this point he did. Barely. But he did have them. By-pass and debridement was the most obvious alternative: restore circulation and cut out the dead muscle. That option would be rough on his system—it would take a day or two to for his body to wash out the dead cells the surgeon didn't get and the rest of the cellular waste that was already present—and there was a chance that he wouldn't be able to use his leg at all depending on the extent of the muscle removed. That route guaranteed nothing but danger and pain. Amputation was by far the safest way to go. But he knew House wouldn't allow it right now. Not after being misdiagnosed twice. Amputation would be conceding defeat for House. Everything with him was competition. He wouldn't do the safe, easy thing.

Wilson shook his head sadly. Maybe between himself, Stacy, and Cuddy, House could be convinced to do the smart thing. But he doubted it.

House's heart rate had risen to 55 while he'd been thinking. Good. Maybe his body was more resilient than Wilson had thought. Maybe.

Wilson took a last look at House and silently left the room. He needed to discuss treatment options with Cuddy and make sure Stacy understood the risks and benefits of each option before they talked to House.


	14. Turn of the Screw

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** Thanks for keeping the faith! (And I know this isn't technically a 'turn of the screw,' but I'm not good with chapter titles.)

* * *

**Chapter 13: The Turn of the Screw**

"He is more than entitled to sue," Cuddy said. "But I don't have to tell you that." She leaned forward, hands clasped together in sincerity, "I'm sorry this happened. It's…it should never have happened." She shook her head in sympathy.

"I…okay," Stacy said with a conceding nod. She'd yelled enough already and Cuddy had done everything appropriately. "What happens now?"

"Right now we wait for the MRI," Cuddy explained. "Depending on what it shows, we will either conduct further tests or begin treatment." She paused. "But based on the lab results, we will have to choose a course of action quickly—"

The door opened and Cuddy cut herself off, glancing expectantly at the tech who had stuck her head in.

"Dr. Cuddy," she said holding up a folder. "The scan you requested…"

Cuddy and Stacy both got to their feet and crossed the room quickly—Cuddy moving with a professional stride and Stacy with a worried half-lunge, half-scramble.

"Thanks," Cuddy said taking the folder. She glanced at the radiologist's note and stuck the scan on a lightboard, flipping the switch.

She did a double-take—something that didn't go unnoticed by Stacy.

"What is it?" Stacy asked immediately.

"That's…" Cuddy stared harder at the scan, "…extremely rare," she finished, talking to herself more than Stacy. She stared for another beat before she remembered Stacy was waiting for an explanation. "It's a clot," she said.

"Clots are rare?" Stacy asked.

"This one is," Cuddy responded, again as if she were speaking to herself. "But despite its origin, the treatment is the same." She sighed a little and put the scan away, indicating that Stacy should sit down.

Stacy stood her ground, her gaze level with Cuddy's.

"Greg said that you might have to amputate," Stacy said evenly. She reminded herself that this was easier for her than it was for him.

"He did?" Cuddy said, though she didn't seem too surprised. She nodded, her mouth forming a small line. "Amputation is the best option in this case."

"He was strongly opposed to it," Stacy said. If that was the worst, she could handle the rest. "What are his other options?"

"I should really discuss this with both of you," Cuddy said, gesturing toward the door with the scan.

"If amputation was the shock option I had to sit down to hear, I'm sure you can tell me the others between here and there," Stacy said impatiently. "He'll know them already, but I don't."

"Amputation is the best option by far," Cuddy said. "It's very safe and his recovery time would be negligible compared to other options. If we don't amputate, the next best option is debridement. A surgeon would cut out the dead muscle and remove the clot, restoring blood flow."

"Let's walk and talk," Stacy interrupted.

Cuddy nodded and they left her office for the elevators walking shoulder to shoulder.

"The problem with debridement and by-pass is that even though the dead muscle has been removed, all of the toxins are still in his body, which will make both the surgery and the post-operative period more dangerous," Cuddy continued. "The toxins released by muscle cell death made him sick in the first place, shutting his kidneys down this morning and affecting his circulatory system. We've been able to counteract that so far but if the leg isn't removed, his body will have to process those toxins."

"Even if you remove some of the dead muscle?" Stacy asked.

"Yes," Cuddy answered.

They reached the elevators and Cuddy pressed the 'up' button. She turned to stand squarely in front of Stacy and lowered her voice a little to discourage eavesdroppers.

"In addition to debridement being more risky surgically, dead muscle can't be replaced once it's removed. Depending on how much muscle is affected, he may not be able to bear weight on his leg or move it at all."

She paused. Stacy's frown deepened.

"If we only do a debridement, he may not be able to stand or walk without assistance. It's also possible that he may not be able to walk at all," Cuddy said.

Stacy's face fell.

"But if we amputate," Cuddy continued, "he would be fitted with a prosthetic leg and while he might not be able to run, he would almost certainly be able to walk and move on his own after a period of adjustment. Amputation spares him the post-op complications of filtering toxins and provides him with the best outlook by far."

Stacy paused, waiting for her to continue. She didn't and the elevator arrived.

"That's it?" Stacy said as she boarded the empty car. "Those are his only options?"

"Those are the two best options," Cuddy said following her.

"I doubt he'll change his mind about amputation," Stacy said. She pressed the button for the ICU floor. "Is there any way to tell how much muscle you would have to remove?" she asked.

"It's difficult to tell," Cuddy said, "but based on the placement and size of the clot, and the delay in treatment, it would probably be more than half of the major muscles in the quadriceps group."

"Oh my God," Stacy said. "All this in just a few days? If we had come back in Saturday or even yesterday—"

"—there's no way to tell how much difference time made in terms of muscle death," Cuddy interrupted as the elevator reached their floor and they got out. She put a hand on Stacy's shoulder. "It's hospital's fault, not yours."

Stacy had a reply ready when she glanced down the hall and saw Wilson standing outside House's room with a chart in his left hand. But instead of looking at the chart, his head was bent and his eyes were on the floor, his posture suggesting loss and defeat.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cuddy and the two of them hurried toward him.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked as she swept up to Wilson.

Wilson jumped: he hadn't heard them coming. Their faces reflected the same worried look his held.

"His lytes nose dived," Wilson said, passing House's chart to Cuddy. "He's okay," Wilson said, turning to Stacy, who'd already noticed that House's room was dark and quiet, and trying to smile, "he's just sleeping. He'll feel better when he wakes up."

Wilson turned backed to Cuddy and set his face. "What did you find?"

Cuddy handed him the MRI folder and the two of them fell to discussing the specifics of House's case.

As they talked, Stacy found herself staring hard into the dim room, trying to discern whether he was awake or not…and how pale he was…and, her stomach tightened, whether he was that horrible shade of ashen grey again…whether he'd lost all of the day's hard-won progress and was back in the same condition as this morning. She took a few blind steps, not hearing the discussion behind her until it stopped.

She waved a hand at them, not looking back, and went to quietly open the door.

Cuddy and Wilson watched her go, exchanged a nervous glance, and fell back to the part of this they were most comfortable with: the medicine.

Stacy slid silently into the room and stole over to the bed. She'd spent enough time in this position to know instinctively whether he was okay in just a few seconds. The heart monitor was beeping steadily and his face told her he was asleep, not unconscious: he was okay. Her stomach unclenched and she breathed easier.

She was just about to step quietly to away when House stirred.

"That's kind of creepy," he murmured. He slowly opened his eyes and blinked up at her, smiling tiredly. "Standing there like that. Could really scare a guy."

"Sorry," she said, beaming back at him. He looked tired and drained, but he was awake. He was joking even.

House motioned for her to turn the light on. "What did they find?" he asked as he pushed himself up.

Stacy hesitated. "I shouldn't be the one to tell you," she said. "You'll have questions." She indicated to the hall. "They're outside." She paused, reluctant to leave, even if it was just to step into the hall.

House impatiently waved her out of the room and watched her talk briefly to Wilson and Cuddy. Both doctors looked at him at the same time and he saw poorly-concealed pity and trepidation on their faces. He waved at them. Pity was no good to him; he wanted answers and action.

Finally they started toward the door, but not quickly enough for House. Wilson's pager went off as they crowded into the room.

He read the small screen. "911," he said. "I have to take this." He looked pointedly at House. "I'll stop by later." He nodded quickly at Stacy and Cuddy, hesitated, then left at a fast trot.

House ignored the event, staring at Cuddy instead. She looked nervous and she wasn't approaching him like she should be: she was hanging back with Stacy. How did someone who seemed to fear giving a diagnosis get to be the associate dean?

"What did you find?" House barked.

Cuddy stepped closer. "The MRI revealed the problem," she said carefully.

House gestured impatiently. "C'mon," he said, "don't spare me. What is it?"

Cuddy took a deep breath. "It's an aneurysm…in your right femoral artery. Saccular."

"And?" House said, again impatiently. If he could have tapped his right foot on the floor, he would have. "Obviously it hasn't ruptured."

"No," Cuddy said, "it hasn't."

"Thrombus," House said immediately. The years of having his natural inclination toward total objectivity cultivated by the theory and practice of medicine had never been more of a blessing than they were now. Too busy making a diagnosis, he didn't feel a thing. But it couldn't last.

Cuddy nodded slightly, a pained look on her face. "Over eight-five percent occluded."

"Infarction," House said, swinging his fist at nothing, as though he'd known it all along.

"Yes," Cuddy confirmed.

House hit the bed hard with his right fist and looked away from Cuddy and Stacy to the opposite wall, jaw clenched tight.

Stacy approached him tentatively. "Greg?" she said cautiously.

He didn't answer, his chest rising and falling quickly. The room was silent for a moment.

"Four days," House ground out, still not looking at anything but the wall. "It took you morons _four days_ to figure that out."

"Yes, it did," Cuddy said. "I apologize. I'm going to oversee your treatment myself now." She took a deep breath. "The best option at this point is amputation."

"No," House said firmly, turning his head quickly to glare at Cuddy.

"Then we'll do a debridement," Cuddy said.

"Wrong again," House said. "Here's what you're going to do: you're going to remove the clot and restore circulation now—I've had nothing to eat and almost nothing to drink in over eight hours, I'm ready, all you need to do is find me a surgeon—and once the cellular waste has been eliminated, then we'll talk debridement, but I am _not _going to let you chop my leg off because a bunch of _idiots _didn't order the right tests."

"That's not possible," Cuddy said. "We don't know how long the artery has been occluded, but based on your symptoms, the muscle has been deteriorating since Friday. Your system can't process that much waste. We'll remove the clot, but we _have _to begin debriding now."

"No," House said firmly. "Not while the tissue might be viable."

"You were admitted this morning in acute renal failure caused by the leakage of cellular waste," Cuddy said matter-of-factly. "Your kidneys are still unable to process the amount of waste they're receiving now—they won't be able to handle all the toxins they'll be bombarded with if we restore circulation without debriding. We have to do the surgery. The necrotic tissue has to be removed. If there's too much—"

"I don't care what you find," House said stiffly.

"It may become necessary in order to save your life," Cuddy said in a caring yet firm voice.

"I like my leg," House said with stoic understatement. "I've had it for as long as I can remember."

"Honey," Stacy said in her best soothing, convincing tone, "I love your leg as much as you do."

House wasn't listening. "They're not cutting it off," he declared.

"Amazing advances have been made," Cuddy said, trying a new tactic. "Kids with prosthetic legs are running the 100-meter dash in twelve seconds."

"Yeah, they're just not as pretty," House snipped in a half-growl, unwilling to let this go on any longer. He knew what the problem was, he knew what to do about it, and he wanted it done immediately. "Do a bypass," he said, "restore the circulation."

"Amputation is safer," Cuddy pointed out.

"For you or me?" House said, his voice betraying some of the bitterness he felt.

"The blockage of blood flow—"

"Four-day blockage," House interrupted nastily.

"Yes," Cuddy said. "It caused muscle cell death. When those cells die, they release cytokines and potassium—"

"If you restore the blood flow instead of just lopping it all off," House said derisively, "then all that crap gets washed back into my system. The cytokines could cause organ failure, the potassium could cause cardiac arrest. On the other hand, I may just get the use of my leg back."

"The post-operative pain alone—"

"I'll get through it," House said dismissively. "I understand the risks, you're in the clear. Go schedule an O.R."

Cuddy nodded swiftly and left.

Stacy watched Cuddy go and turned immediately to House. "God, you're an idiot," she said, angry with him for being so stupidly stubborn and angry with circumstance for letting this happen in the first place.

"I think I'm more of a jerk," House said jokingly, attempting to shrug the situation off. He was angry and scared and he didn't want to go three rounds with his girlfriend right now.

But Stacy wasn't having any of his attempted deflection. "I'm not being glib," she said, anger beginning to mix with fear and despair. "And I'm not being cute. I don't want you to kill yourself."

"I'm not gonna die," House said seriously, but with a hint of an eye roll.

"Oh, I feel completely reassured," Stacy said in a bitter, biting voice.

"Stace, I'll be fine," House said sincerely, doing his best to calm her down.

"Cardiac arrest! Organ failure!" Stacy incredulously. "Greg, your kidneys were failing a few hours ago. You're already sick and this is going to make you worse. Why would you do this to yourself? Because you don't want to look different?"

"They screwed up, Stacy," House said passionately. "They missed it. I'm not going to let them have my leg just because it's safer for them. I'm young, I'm healthy, I'm in good shape. I can do this."

"You _were_ healthy," Stacy shot back. "You're not any more. Greg. You could have died this morning."

"I was fine," House said dismissively.

"You were not fine!" Stacy half-shouted.

"Can we not fight about this?" House said peevishly.

"Okay," Stacy said, sitting down. "God knows you're right about everything," she muttered angrily, her hands nervously fluttering around of their own volition, "especially the things you're wrong about."

House tried to glare at her, but he couldn't pull it off. He didn't feel like fighting. …well, he felt like he could throw a few punches, but not at Stacy.

She saw his countenance change and her expression softened too. "If you do this…" she began unsteadily, "what happens?"

House took a deep breath. "The procedure is very simple," he said. "It won't take long. After that…I'll feel bad for a few days, and once all of the crap is out of my system, I'll be fine."

"That's it?" Stacy said unbelievingly, "you'll be fine? Just like that?" She snapped her fingers. "No cardiac arrest? No organ failure?"

"Those are potential complications," House said evenly. "Informed consent, that's all."

"No, Greg, that was a lot more than her making you aware of potential complications," Stacy said. "This sounds extremely risky."

"Every medical procedure entails risk," House countered.

Stacy stared at him, unconvinced.

"It's not as safe and clean and nice as amputation," House said contemptuously, "but it raises the odds of me getting my leg back considerably."

"And the odds of you dying?" Stacy asked.

"I already told you," House said, becoming even more frustrated than he already was, "I'll be fine." Why was this so hard for her to accept?

Stacy sighed. He wasn't going to listen. "I just want you to be okay," she said. "You're choosing the most risky option. I can't help worrying."

House met her gaze. "I have to do what I think is right," he said. "I won't be able to live with myself if I don't."

"You might not live at all if you do," Stacy said with earnest sincerity.

"I'm not going to go through this again," House said. "It's _my_ decision and I've made it. I understand that you're worried, but I _have _to do this."

"I know," Stacy said bowing her head. "I just wish you had better options."

"So do I," House said with a small smile.

Stacy let out a long sigh and took his hand in hers, kissing it quickly. "I just want you to be okay," she said softly.

He smiled and rubbed her hands.

"So," she said. "What do we do now?"

"We wait for the doctor to come back," House said. "They can do this today. In a few hours."

"And then?" she asked.

"We see how it goes," he said.

Stacy sighed again. "Okay," she said. She would have to accept that this was his choice. What else could she do? "Do you want me to get you anything from the apartment?" she asked.

"Oh, I dunno," House said. He smiled wryly. "I could use a drink."

"So could I," Stacy commiserated. "Are you sure you don't want me to call your parents?"

"I don't think I can handle my father right now," House mumbled.

"You never can," Stacy said.

"Call them when I'm dead," House muttered, "not before then."

Stacy gave him a hard look. She knew his gallows humor kept him sane, but it was difficult to hear at a time like this.

"It's not like they can do anything," House explained with a shrug. "They'll just be needlessly worried and an imposition on you."

Stacy conceded that point. "Do you have a phone number in case something happens?" she asked.

"Ask Wilson," House said sarcastically. "My mom loves him."

"Don't pout," Stacy admonished, "it makes you look wimpy."

"Am not," House muttered. He couldn't do witty banter right now.

The conversation lulled and House glanced out the window at the nurse's station where Cuddy was on the phone, then to his leg. He tried to lift it again, straining but getting nowhere.

"How is it?" Stacy asked, watching him closely.

House glanced quickly up at Stacy, then back to his leg. "Can't feel it," he murmured. He lay back and rubbed his face tiredly, pausing on his chin. "Still need to shave," he said.

"You do," Stacy said scratching his chin. "I've got your razor—"

"Here she comes," House interrupted, his eyes tracking Cuddy as she approached the room. He sat forward again and Stacy's hold on his hand tightened.

"You're in first thing in the morning," Cuddy said.

"Surgeons go home before five now?" House snapped. "I know you can get me in. Stop wasting time."

"Your kidney function is still poor," Cuddy pointed out, "if we restore circulation now you'll need dialysis. Your body needs to recuperate before it's attacked again."

"So you're treating the symptoms instead of the cause," House said snidely, "and meanwhile my leg continues to rot."

"You need your kidneys more than you need your leg," Cuddy pointed out.

"I can get new kidneys," House said, "I can't get a new leg. Bump me up."

"No," Cuddy said. "I can't." Her eyes flicked to Stacy and back to House in a less than a second. "Medically I can't," she added, looking slightly nervous.

House caught the glance at Stacy and read it for what it was. "You're worried about me suing you?" he said in exasperation. "You're not going to do it now because you're worried about your malpractice insurance premiums?"

"No," Cuddy said evenly, "I'm not going to do it because it's wrong. Medically, ethically, and, yes, legally. Morally. Even logically. Logically it's wrong."

"Logic got me where I am now," House grumbled. "It's done me no good."

"I can't do this," Cuddy said. "I won't."

"You can and will!" House shouted.

"Organs are more important than limbs," Cuddy said. "No surgeon will take you in your current condition. Not at this hospital."

"Then find one who will and transfer me," House growled.

"Greg, you're being unreasonable," Stacy said.

"It's not unreasonable to want to save a limb," House said.

"It is if you're risking your life to do it," Stacy replied. She turned quickly to Cuddy before House had a chance to speak again. "What about options?" she asked. _Make him understand_ her eyes said.

"There are no other options," House snapped before Cuddy could answer. He addressed Cuddy in a low, cold, angry tone, "Postponing surgery not only lessens my chances of regaining utility, it also does more harm to the major organs you're trying so hard to protect. It's idiotic to wait."

"Your lab work shows marked improvement in kidney function every time we test," Cuddy said, "but they're still working at less than half normal capacity. The current treatment has been effective; if we continue it, by tomorrow morning your body will be much better prepared to process cellular waste and _then_ we can do it your way."

Cuddy didn't wait for House to protest this time. She removed a piece of paper from his file and offered it to him.

House stopped talking and looked dully up at her. He knew what that was and he had a good idea of what it said.

"What is that?" Stacy asked, sensing that Cuddy had House cornered and that both doctors knew it.

"His blood gas results from half an hour ago," Cuddy said without taking her eyes off of House. "Dr. Wilson said you passed out twice. If your electrolytes become this imbalanced after only hour without support, you will need new kidneys by morning. If on the other hand you wait—"

"I know, I know," House said irritably. "You run as much saline through me as possible, load me up with electrolytes, and _then_ undo all of that. The longer you wait, the more prepared my kidneys will be and the more crap they'll have to wash out." He paused with a deadly stare. "Or maybe this clot will detach from the artery it's hanging out in now and go straight for my lungs—that would be so much faster," he sneered.

"The E.R. team assessed that risk this morning and Dr. Wilson and I considered it again this afternoon," Cuddy said perfunctorily.

"And yet it _could_ happen, just like I _could_ be fine if you do this now," House said.

"Your kidneys won't be able to handle it—"

"You know what?" House said. "I was tired of this conversation before it began. I'm leaving. Bring me a phonebook. No, better yet, get Wilson in here. _Someone_ will do this."

"Greg—"

"No, Stacy," House said. "The longer they sit around doing nothing, the worse off I am in the end. I'm not going to let that happen."

"As your doctor, I strongly advise against a transfer," Cuddy said.

"That's great," House said, "but I'm stable and I'm ready to leave. Now that we're done with the legal chit chat, go page Wilson."

Cuddy eyed him carefully, waiting a moment before she answered. Everything about him screamed 'I'm serious.' She had no legitimate reason to keep him here and one of the hospital's lawyers was in the room. Her hands were tied.

"All right," she said at last and exited the room.

"You know we have 20 fewer malpractice suits than any other hospital in the region," Stacy said.

"The only numbers I care about are the minutes and hours between this moment and removing that clot," House said stubbornly.

"And you think James is going to help you?" Stacy said.

"He'll understand," House said.

"What if he doesn't?" Stacy asked.

"He will," House said firmly.


	15. Fidelis Achates

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

**A/N:** And now we begin the first of two utterly pointless chapters (except in terms of character development and gosh-darn-it-I-wanted-to-write-this-scene-ed-ness). Thanks for sticking with me in this largely plotless, self-indulgent wasteland. I don't know if I get away with this, but eh, it's done. ;)

extrabitter – Thanks. I try to keep it realistic, but in certain places realism drops away for the sake of clarity, as with the 'kidneys' thing – if House and Cuddy burst into jargon most of the audience becomes confused, or drama/self-indulgence, as with Cuddy rejecting House's plan, which was more about her trying to impress on him the severity of the situation so he'd stop being stubborn and less based in fact. The next two chapters are predicated on House not going immediately to surgery – a point I think the episode supports, since House is included in the 'nervous waiting before surgery' montage – and not being a doctor or connected in any remote way with the health/medical field, this was the best I could do in the way of an explanation for the time lag – especially given House's refusal to back down in the scripted argument. I figure it's about as realistic as the show is every week (i.e., not always terribly realistic) and my medical consultant gave me the green light, so there it is. :) The first half of this chapter makes no sense, though, and is totally implausible. It would never happen…except perhaps on television. ;)

Thanks to everyone else who's reviewed. Reviews make me smile. :)

And finally, big time props to my beta/med consultant, Auditrix, who was robbed of props in the last chapter. The stuff that's right is her doing; the stuff that's wrong is me being stubborn. Speaking of wrong, taping a cath bag to House's leg is incorrect and needlessly complicated but I already had the humor written when I learned that and I'd rather keep the funny business than get it right. Let's just say House is messing with Stacy in that part of the scene and doesn't really mind having a large (let's say mostly empty) bag taped to his left thigh if he gets to gross Stacy out in the process. –eg–

* * *

**Chapter 14: Fidelis Achates **

House rubbed his face tiredly, frowning as the few day's growth of stubble scratched against his hand. Another day or so and it would start itching. He could squeeze in a shave before surgery, he mused, but he'd rather spend that time doing something else.

What? He didn't know. But shaving seemed like a waste. His hands snaked down to his leg. He had an urge to spend some quality time with it…take it fishing…or tell it the facts of life… How did one spend quality time with an appendage? Taking a walk was the best he could come up with, but he knew he couldn't walk on it.

He paused and chewed on that thought for a moment.

Seized by an impulse, he sat up, flipped the covers away, and scooted awkwardly to his left, trying not to pull any of the tubes out of his body as he moved. He moved his leg, got himself in place, and managed to get his feet on the floor without tangling himself up in sheets, wires, tubes, or anything else. Knuckles flat against the bed, he got his balance, grasped the I.V. stand to his right, and stood up.

He wavered slightly, steadied himself, and did his best to adjust the gown. The damn thing was just too short and too difficult to close. As if he wasn't attached to the bed there anyway. He stretched—it was nice to be out of bed—and glanced through the glass wall. No one had noticed.

So…now what?

The I.V. stand was too rickety to trust and he could only take one or two steps before the tether tightened and threatened to rip out his bladder. He was too tall and too unsteady to bend down and unhook the bag himself, so he was stuck where he was. Dammit.

He was assessing how bound he really was to the bed, trying to decide whether he really was too tall and too unsteady on his feet to reach the bag, when Stacy arrived.

"What's going on?" she asked curiously, placing a cup of coffee on the tray and examining him with a mixed expression.

House had suggested she get some coffee after their "discussion" earlier and she'd taken him up on it without comment, realizing that he needed some space and she needed some time.

"I thought I'd take a walk," House said neutrally. "But I'm a little tied up." He gestured to his lower half.

Responses flashed through Stacy's head—_is this a good idea? are you sure you should be up? what if something happens? you're being so stupid and stubborn!_—but she checked herself. No more fighting.

"I guess someone should untie you," she said instead. "Should I get a nurse?"

House smiled at her tact. "Ah, no," he said. "Could you, ah, grab some gloves," he nodded toward a box, "and there should be some tape in one of those drawers."

Stacy's eyebrow arched in question but she obeyed.

"What if James arrives?" she asked, donning the gloves. "You were so adamant about rushing this procedure—it seems counterintuitive to leave the room."

House smiled faintly. "You just don't want to touch the bag," he joked.

Stacy half-shrugged, her expression telling him he'd nailed the problem right on the head.

"There is a reason I went the lawyer route," she said. "Okay, what am I supposed to do?"

"Tape it to my leg," House said.

Stacy took a moment to register her incredulity and disapproval. 'Surely you're not serious,' her face said.

House nodded to his left leg, a bemused expression on his face.

Stacy glared, then cringed, and finally settled on 'you _so_ owe me' before she knelt down.

House watched her. "You must really love me," he teased.

Stacy glowered up at him, thoroughly unamused. She fixed the last piece of tape and stood up, not quite sure what to do with herself now.

"Thanks," House said sincerely. "I'm going to go crazy if I don't get out of this room."

Stacy was still standing aimlessly next to him, clearly disgusted.

House snickered. "You should wash your hands," he said.

Stacy glared and rolled her eyes, then turned toward the room's sink muttering 'gross,' and 'despicable.'

House snickered again and set about testing his mobility. He knew this was a bad idea—already he felt tired and shaky—but he _had_ to get out of the room. And since Wilson was taking his time…

Stacy dried her hands and watched him shuffle slowly around the bed using a combination of the I.V. pole and the bed for support, dragging his right leg awkwardly. He looked pathetic, but she saw the determination on his face: this was happening no matter what she said.

She bit her tongue again and moved to his left, situating herself under his arm. House gratefully accepted her help, glad she hadn't said anything.

Fifteen minutes later the two of them were making slow but steady progress around the floor, Stacy supporting him from the left and the I.V. stand on the right.

Each step was laborious. His leg refused to submit to his control and he was forced to drag it behind him as best he could, trying to worm it forward with his right foot after each forward step so he wouldn't look so much like a deformed lab assistant in a Frankenstein movie. Taking short steps made it easier, but he didn't like easier and he didn't take short steps. By the time they'd gone half way around the floor, he was sweating and fighting to stay on his feet.

Stacy could feel him trembling and panting but she kept her mouth shut. He would only snarl and snap if she said something. They were about to pass a bench. She was searching for something to say that would absolve him of admitting he was tired while still getting him to stop, but she wasn't coming up with anything he wouldn't immediately see through. She was therefore relieved when he turned toward it and muttered something about wanting to sit down for a little while.

He sank down tiredly, leaning heavily against her.

"Really wish I had some boxers," he said as he caught his breath, "don't know where this bench has been."

"I think the bench has more to worry about than you do," Stacy teased.

"That was so funny I forgot to laugh," House said, wiping sweat off his forehead. He glanced down the hall at the elevators. "How's the weather outside?" he asked.

"Hot and sticky," Stacy said. "The high is 92."

House cocked his head. "You're not just saying that, right?" he said. "I feel like I haven't been outside in months."

"We can go if you want," Stacy said carefully. "But James won't know where to look."

"He's a smart lad," House said. "He would figure it out."

He looked down at his pale leg and made a face. He wasn't fooling anyone. Couldn't make it around the floor once without stopping to rest. The fatigue he'd felt since he woke up was compounding by the second and his leg was starting to ache and burn. He really wanted to curl up on the bench and go to sleep…

Yeah. This had been a bad idea.

"All right," he said as he started to pick himself up, "let's go back."

"Sure you can make it?" Stacy asked, taking his weight on her shoulders. "Now before you snap," she added quickly, "I'm only asking so that when you're scraped off the floor in a few minutes, you can't say that I didn't say something."

"Funny," House grunted. But she was right. He wasn't going to be on his feet much longer—no. No. He could do this. It wasn't that far.

They shambled slowly down the hall for a few more minutes before House stopped, sighed, and inclined his head toward a stray wheelchair outside a supply room.

"Could you grab that?" he asked, hanging his head in defeat.

Wisely, Stacy said nothing, steering him toward the chair instead. She helped him get situated.

"Wow, that sucked," House said breathlessly. He rubbed his head, feeling awful as she started pushing him down the hall.

He looked up just in time to spot a familiar figure approaching and did his best to duck. Recognition was the last thing he needed right now.

The short, stout, balding man in glasses whom House wanted to avoid glanced up at them, nodded a hello to Stacy, then turned his attention back to the chart he was skimming. A split second later, he stopped and looked up again.

"House?" he said incredulously, eyebrows knitting as he studied House's pale form. "What happened to you?"

It was Kenyon, the only hepatologist who would go anywhere near House. He claimed to share House's interest in infectious diseases, but House had always thought of him as more of a hanger-on than a colleague. Plus, the man had no sense of humor.

"Got hit by a bus," House said dryly. "How've you been?"

Kenyon's eyes widened and Stacy nudged House, disapproval on her face. House did his best to look innocent.

"Geez, are you all right?" Kenyon said, his broad face filling up with concern.

Stacy rolled her eyes at House. "He didn't get hit by a bus, Bob," she said.

"But you can spread that around," House said. "Throw in something about me saving an old lady or a puppy. I want huge brownie points."

"What's going on?" Kenyon asked suspiciously, but the fact that his mouth was hanging open slightly belied his tone.

House sighed to himself. Kenyon was unbelievably dense and with his jaw slack like that, he resembled an extraordinarily imbecilic species of fish. Stacy nudged him again and he grudgingly related his real plight in a few words to the other doctor, whose face immediately showed sympathy and pity.

House patted his leg. "I was doing one last lap before they take rightie and fit me with a wooden leg and a parrot—my HMO won't cover the eye patch—but then I collided with this chair and was forced to sit." He screwed up his face and said did his best imitation of a pirate. "Arrgh, shiver me timbers! Thar be land! Care for a grog, matey?" He turned to Kenyon. "How does that sound? I think it needs work personally."

Kenyon's countenance became confused, then overwhelmed as House kept talking. He glanced helplessly at Stacy. She nodded slightly, though she was obviously not amused by House's banter.

"Wow, I'm really sorry to hear that," Kenyon said, still wide-eyed. "Should you be moving around? P.E. and all, is what I mean."

"This clot isn't going anywhere," House said coolly.

Kenyon nodded, his mouth opening wider as if that would help him take in the information more easily.

"Wow, well, take care," he said. "Look out for yourself." His eyes shifted to Stacy. "And you Stacy," he added. "I'm sorry to see this happen."

"Me too," House said, prickling with annoyance.

Kenyon smiled sympathetically and started down the hall. Stacy gave House a stern look, but House refused to appear contrite.

"You're such a jerk," she said once Kenyon was out of earshot.

"C'mon, I _had _to," House said, looking up at her. "He had it coming."

"Because he believes you when you tell him something?" Stacy said playfully. "I'm in trouble."

"You're not incapable of understanding irony," House said.

"What if he were your doctor?" Stacy challenged.

"Then _I'd_ be in trouble," House said.

"You're already in enough trouble," Stacy said wearily, but she was smiling. He was screwing with his colleagues: he was still okay. None of this 'taking a walk' business was to her liking and even though he'd crumpled a few minutes ago, as bad as he looked, he was still joking.

He was quiet now, though, as she wheeled him into the room. If he hadn't been shaking so visibly, she might think he was asleep.

She knelt next to him. He was slumped forward, eyes closed, face slack. She gently massaged the back of his neck. "You all right?"

"Fine," House mumbled. Even with his eyes closed he could see the disbelief on her face. "Tired," he added with the ghost of a smile. "Lemme sit here for a while."

A few moments later he jerked awake, realizing she was shaking him.

He blinked and looked up at her. "What?"

She smiled down at him. "You're falling asleep," she said. "Come on, lie down."

"Don't wanna," House mumbled, letting his head loll between his shoulders. "'M comfortable."

"You're going to fall out of that thing," she said. He made an annoyed whining noise as she moved him next to the bed. "C'mon, get up one more time and then you can take a nap."

House grunted and didn't move.

"Gre-eg," she said nudging him. "Now or I get a nurse."

He groaned, "Aw, all right." He shook himself, trying to wake up.

"Sure you can do this?" she asked. "I can't pick you up."

House muttered something unflattering and used his remaining strength to push himself up. Stacy helped him on to the bed, moving his leg and doing her best not to be completely unsettled by it.

"You're gonna give me hell about this, aren't you?" he murmured when he was horizontal again.

"Oh yeah," Stacy said. "This was exceptionally dumb."

The world faded and then…

"Ow!"

He jolted awake. Pain in his…left leg?

He cracked his eyes open. Stacy was holding a piece of tape triumphantly.

"That hurt," he said. "You did that on purpose."

"Only after you asked me to put it there in the first place," Stacy said. She glanced disdainfully at the bag. "This thing looks like it's about to start leaking. Okay, one more."

"No," House protested, "it's fine—ow! Geez."

She smirked at him and hung the bag back on the bed.

"_This_ is your revenge?" he said rubbing the two hairless stripes on his left thigh. "Not nice."

"I suppose you'd rather have that stuff all over you?" she said with an eyebrow raised.

"If it meant I'd get to keep my leg hair," House grouched.

"One day you're going to learn to think your actions through," Stacy said. "But not today." She moved closer to him and brushed his hair affectionately. "Not restless anymore I hope?"

"Not at all," House murmured, beginning to fall asleep again.

"I'll go check on James," she said. She kissed his cheek lightly and left.

House waited for the world to fade again.

He waited for what felt like a long time.

He waited after that.

It wasn't happening.

He couldn't sleep.

Crap.

On some level he realized that he was really bad shape if he couldn't keep it together long enough to walk once around the floor, but this surgery needed to happen soon. _Now_. He could handle it. And if he couldn't sleep right now, well, he'd live.

"—might be asleep."

Stacy. Two pairs of footsteps. Wilson. Finally.

"I'm awake," House mumbled and pried his eyes open.

Yep, it was Wilson, chart, labs, and a film from radiology in hand. So that would be his method of attack.

"Took your sweet time," House muttered.

He watched Wilson and Stacy exchange a series of glances, then Stacy glanced at him to let him know she was going down the hall for a while.

Well. At least they weren't going to double team him.

"Remember that 911 page?" Wilson said soberly. "They weren't kidding." He sat down in what House had begun thinking of as Stacy's spot. "The family took it hard."

"You're having a great day, aren't you?" House said tiredly with only the slightest tinge of sarcasm.

Wilson's mouth quirked in acknowledgement. He couldn't take any crap from House right now but it was his duty as House's friend to be here. He knew what House wanted. It wasn't going to happen. But he also knew why House needed to talk to him—to have some hope of getting his way and to know he had someone to bitch to when he didn't get it.

"Dr. Cuddy says you want to be transferred so your surgery can happen tonight," Wilson began neutrally.

House wasn't fooled by Wilson's tone. Neutral. No way was Wilson neutral. House rolled his eyes, refusing to dignify Wilson's statement with a response.

"You know you can't do this," Wilson said without any hint of emotion. "You won't make it."

"I'll be fine," House said firmly.

Wilson began pulling the MRI out of its file.

House rolled his eyes again. "Here we go," he said sarcastically. "Now he brings out the big guns." He took the film from Wilson but didn't look at it.

"I would have shown you this earlier," Wilson said with barely perceptible bite, "but you passed out."

"I did not," House said.

"Yes, you did," Wilson said evenly. "Twice." He paused. "And Stacy said it happened again after you tried to take a walk around the floor—a brilliant idea, by the way."

House sneered and kept the film in his lap, deliberately not looking at it.

"Cuddy said she showed you the ABG results," Wilson continued. "I'd show you your chart so you can compare the numbers but I know you've memorized them already. You're not doing well."

House rolled his eyes again and held the film up against the light. Looking at it was the only way to get Wilson to shut up and start checking on available surgeons.

House wasn't pleased with what he saw. It was there. It was big. Bigger than he'd expected. And the placement in the artery…oh crap, he was screwed. So screwed. He put the film down and concentrated hard on contracting the muscles…nothing…he concentrated now on feeling anything at all…nothing….

It was real. It was happening. It was happening to him. To him. His calf and part of his thigh had begun to ache, but most of his thigh was still numb. The pain this weekend, taking so much codeine—needing it. And now nothing, no feeling, no movement. This clot had been there for four days. This was real and it was happening and it wasn't going to go away. He was _so_ screwed.

And he hadn't wanted to admit to anyone, least of all himself, that even though his leg didn't really hurt, he felt absolutely horrible. He'd seen the orangy-brown urine in the Foley bag; his lower back had begun to ache over an hour ago. Kidney failure. Days of it. He knew its signs and symptoms better than anyone else in the hospital. The massive amount of protein from his leg wasn't being filtered. His muscles had begun to ache slightly since he'd been moving around, too. Fever, malaise, fatigue, pain: right now the hospital staff was one step ahead, giving him enough corrective elements to minimize those symptoms. He knew he felt much better than he should. But tomorrow.

No, not tomorrow. Today. This was going to happen today. The clot was going to be removed today.

House passed the film back to Wilson. "Waiting doesn't do me any good," he said decisively.

Wilson calmly put the film away and gave House another piece of paper. "Urinalysis results, fresh from the lab," he said. "The sample was taken after you lost consciousness."

The numbers had dropped dramatically, but House wasn't fazed. He'd just seen the viscous fluid draining out of him—he knew what that looked like on paper.

"These results support my argument," he said brandishing the paper.

Wilson shrugged. "You're the nephrologist," he said evenly. "You tell me how long it takes to reverse that much damage."

"Pumping me full of electrolytes and waiting until my pee turns yellow won't help," House said.

"You know if I find someone stupid enough to do this and transfer you now—say you're on the table in a few hours—you're going to lose a kidney," Wilson said. "Never mind that—your heart won't be able to take it. Even with dialysis and as much electrolyte support as possible, your chances suck. You were lucky we were able to correct the arrhythmia this morning without shocking you." He paused. "But if we give you another twelve hours of saline and lytes, you might just have a chance of making it through all the crap your leg is going to throw at you as soon as the clot is gone."

House remained impassive.

Wilson sighed. "I understand your reasoning," he said. "I sympathize. I'm not sure I wouldn't do the same thing—for a while—if it were me, but I'd allow a surgeon to begin debriding. Remove the clot, yes, but let him take some of the dead muscle now. Every little bit he removes lessens the strain on your body."

"Well," House sniffed, "you're not me."

"You'd really rather die than lose your leg?" Wilson asked, frustrated, impassioned, incredulous.

"I'll make it," House growled.

"You know no one is going to agree to this," Wilson said. "Not if Cuddy and I say no."

"You're siding with her?" House said angrily.

"I'm siding with reason," Wilson said. "Yes, waiting until tomorrow morning to remove the clot will cost you extra live muscle, but so much time has already passed that what you lose between now and seven a.m. is negligible compared to what you'd gain in improved renal function." He paused. "I suppose nothing I could say would make you re-think amputation."

"You'd be right," House said stiffly.

Wilson sighed again. House was being his usual intractable self. "I know you're frustrated," he said. "You don't work this way and you don't like people who do. But you can't be your own physician. You've got to trust that Cuddy has your best interest at heart."

"She wants to saw the thing off," House said, indicating angrily to his leg.

"What about me?" Wilson asked cautiously, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

House was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "That's a nice speech. You should write for Clinton. Y'know, you two have a lot in common when you think about it."

"Oh come on," Wilson said, "I have _standards_. And _taste_." He was willing to play along for a little while. The patient who'd died earlier...he knew it would keep him up tonight and tomorrow night and the night after next. A little levity would be nice right now.

"Word on the street says otherwise," House retorted. "Don't forget perjury is an impeachable offense."

"I'm not under oath," Wilson said.

"Not one that requires you to tell the truth, no," House said, "but there is that one about harm…something…" he pretended to search for the phrase, "…how did it go?...do no harm?...no, that can't be it—"

"You are _so_ changing my mind right now," Wilson deadpanned.

"You wouldn't still be here if you weren't thinking it over," House charged.

"Uh, some of us don't bark orders at a patient then disappear," Wilson said.

"They could use a guy like you in the E.R.," House said spitefully.

The meaning of his statement wasn't lost on Wilson. "Okay," he said. "You're angry. You're bitter. You should be. But neither of those feelings has any bearing on this conversation."

"Au contraire," House said.

Again, Wilson knew what he was suggesting—that this would be another screw up. Another wrong decision.

"This isn't a mistake," Wilson said. "What you want to do is irrational."

"Ooo, right for the jugular," House said, miming his throat being ripped out.

"You do realize that the longer we talk about this…" Wilson began.

"Can't put one over on you, can I?" House said. "I thought you were avoiding me earlier…in fact, I'm not sure death excuses you."

House had more to say but Wilson's stricken expression stopped him. He looked down in wordless apology. Too far.

It took Wilson a moment to realize he'd won the argument. …the, uh, argument that hadn't really been an argument because he wasn't going to entertain House's point, he reminded himself.

"What does Stacy think?" Wilson asked after a moment.

"She's worried," House said pensively. "Scared."

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"She should…go home…do some work…anything," House said. He rubbed his face tiredly. "It's selfish of me to want her here," he added in a tone that clearly marked the statement as a question.

"Do you think she would be here if she didn't want to be?" Wilson asked.

"Tomorrow…" House said reflectively. He stared at nothing for a moment, contemplating the situation, then lifted his head just so and Wilson knew he was being addressed. "She won't listen to me."

"A sign of sanity if there ever was one," Wilson said. "I'll talk to her. But I don't think she'll listen."

"People tell me _I'm_ stubborn," House remarked.

Wilson's mouth quirked. "You get dinner tonight," he said. "I can pick something up."

"No," House said. "I'm not hungry."

"Okay," Wilson said standing up to leave. "Let me know if you change your mind."

House shrugged an awkward assent.

Wilson started toward the door.

"Hey, before you go," House said.

Wilson stopped and waited.

"If I have to wait until tomorrow, I want the Foley out tonight."

Wilson started to protest but House pre-empted him.

"It can go back in the morning with the a-line and central line and all the other lines," he said, "but I want to pee standing up while I still can."

"The saline is going to be running wide open all night," Wilson said. "They'll need samples too."

"I think I'm still capable of peeing in a cup," House said.

Wilson hesitated. "You should be sleeping," he said, though he knew exactly what House would do with that argument.

"You really think I'm gonna sleep tonight?" House scoffed.

"I'll leave an order for you," Wilson said. "If you want it," he added. "Any preferences?"

"Whisky," House said, "and a mallet."

Wilson smiled. "I'll leave something good."

"I don't want anything," House said.

Wilson shrugged. "Can't hurt to leave an order," he said.

"Thanks," House murmured.

Wilson pretended he hadn't heard that. "I'll stop by later," he said.

House nodded slightly and closed his eyes. God, he was tired.

He didn't notice Wilson linger in the doorway or the worry that crept on to his face before he turned and left.


	16. The Days Go So Slow

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

We'll get to some actual plot in the chapter after next. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Days Go So Slow**

Stacy waited anxiously outside House's room for Wilson to emerge. She was so absorbed in waiting and watching that she didn't notice one of the many white-coated figures in the hall approach her and try to get her attention.

"Stacy?" he said.

She jumped, her hand flying to her heart.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said immediately. He reached toward her, cautiously putting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, Nate, thanks," she said, trying to brush off the scare and his presence at once. His hand slipped off her shoulder.

"I heard about what happened," he said. "I was going to stop by the room but then I saw you out here. What's going on?"

"James is trying to talk him out of doing something incredibly stupid," she said.

Except for a quick glance, she didn't take her eyes off of the point down the hall she'd been watching. She was annoyed when he didn't take the hint and made the mistake of glancing at him again. He was waiting patiently. She cursed to herself and related the situation to him.

"That _is _stupid," he said when she'd finished updating him.

_Thanks, that _really _helps_, she thought.

He seemed to catch her disapproval this time.

"House is tough," he said. "He'll make it through."

A thought came to her. Idiot though he was, Nate _was_ a doctor. Couldn't hurt to see what he thought about Greg's chances. Wilson and Cuddy seemed to be holding something back every time she talked to them.

"Is there much doubt that he will?" she asked. She asked in her best 'I'm a poor, lost female, won't you please help me, you big strong man?' voice, "James, Greg's doctor, even Greg himself—I feel like they're not telling me everything. Realistically, what are his chances?"

Nate blew out a nervous breath and shook his head. "Well I— I don't know," he said. "I'd need to look at his chart and— so many factors go into determining chances that— I mean, I wish I could help you, but I just don't know."

"No one seems to know," Stacy said, turning up the charm, "but you could guess, couldn't you?"

"Well," Nate said, eyeing the wall behind her head as though it would offer him the answer, "as long as his blood gasses are okay, he'll be fine, but if he's already in renal failure and he won't allow amputation or debridement…I'd really have to see his chart to know how bad the renal failure is, but in a major artery and a muscle group that large… It's—I hate to be so blunt, but it's probably going to be his leg or him."

"Thanks for being honest with me, Nate," Stacy said. She faked a smile.

"No problem," he said. "I wish the situation were better. I guess I was there when it started."

"Really?" Stacy asked, genuinely curious now. "He said it started hurting while he was playing golf, but I didn't…"

Nate nodded. "It was really strange," he said. "He was teeing off on the last hole and he just sort of lost it in the middle of his backswing, cried out and fell down like he'd been struck by lightning. I thought he was just trying to get out of the game on Saturday for a while, it seemed so unreal. It was so sudden too. But it was clear that he didn't know what was going on at all. I drove him back here and he looked terrible, but he said he was all right when I left him. I guess he got home okay…?"

"He did," Stacy said. "He went to the clinic after you brought him back, but they didn't catch it. He thought it was nothing until this morning."

"Rare miss for him," Nate said. "I'm sorry no one else caught it."

"They should have," Stacy said lowly.

"So…he just went to the clinic?" Nate asked.

"After golf?" Stacy said. "Yes. But he was so sick by Friday afternoon that I made him go to the E.R." She shook her head with a bitter laugh. "The doctor there told him he had a urinary tract infection and for some reason—I don't know why—Greg believed him." She shook her head again, feeling tears all of a sudden. "Saturday and Sunday were horrible," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "He thought he had the flu for a while—his leg stopped hurting all together on Sunday—but he wouldn't let me bring him back here. I believed him when he said it was only the flu—and he didn't know then, it wasn't like he was keeping it secret."

Nate reached out again and took her shoulder. "Hey, Stacy, it's okay," he said in a soothing voice. "They know what the problem is now and that's what's important. He's strong. He'll pull through."

"I know," she said. His hand had brought her back to reality. She placed a hand over his. "I'm okay. Thanks for your help."

He smiled and patted her should quickly, then removed his hand.

"Let me know if you need anything," he said.

"I will, thanks," she said.

He finally left after a brief period of hesitation. Stacy let out a sigh. That was more difficult than she'd expected it to be. Somehow saying it, everything that had happened, everything that she'd been told, to Nate made it more real and more horrible. And Wilson was still in there. God, Greg was stubborn.

Five minutes later, she was pacing nervously, barely keeping herself from going in and telling him he was going to wait no matter what he thought because he was being an idiot and—_finally_. There was Wilson.

Wilson let himself out of the room and found her.

"What did he say?" Stacy asked anxiously.

"He agreed to wait until tomorrow," Wilson said.

"Good," Stacy said. "I was about to go in there and start lecturing."

Wilson smiled a little. Then he shook his head. "He was never really serious about waiting," he said. "He wasn't by the time I arrived, anyway." He rubbed his forehead and sighed, leaning against the wall. What an absolutely draining day.

She put a comforting hand on Wilson's shoulder. "How are you doing?" she asked. "I heard about your patient…"

"It's not something you get used to," he said shaking his head again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.

Stacy nodded. "Greg would deny it if you asked him, but it keeps him up too."

Wilson pushed himself off of the wall, standing straight and getting his composure back. "It's an unavoidable part of the job," he said stoically.

"For you more than most," Stacy said. She'd forgotten that Wilson was also so close to the situation and that he'd had even more to deal with today. Talking about it made her feel better somehow.

Wilson shrugged. "I knew what I was getting into," he said, "but that doesn't make it any easier."

Sensing his discomfort, Stacy changed the subject. "How is Julie?"

"She's good," Wilson said. He smiled shyly. "I'm thinking about proposing."

"James—congratulations," Stacy said, pulling him into a tentative hug. "She's a lucky woman."

"Thanks," Wilson said smiling. Then his expression changed. "Oh," he said, "before I forget, um—you're not going to like this—but Greg wanted me to tell you to go home," he said. He winced. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"That—" Stacy stifled a string of insults, fuming. "He—"

"I know," Wilson said gently. "But he made me promise to talk to you." And he was right to a point, Wilson thought. He'd seen her go from anxious to relieved to jubilant to livid in less than two minutes. She was tired. He knew what that felt like: reactions became more extreme, everything seemed surreal. But he knew nothing he could say would change her mind right now. She was just as stubborn as House was.

"Why would he—" Stacy cut herself off, confused and angry.

"He can't stand having anyone take care of him," Wilson said.

"Well, I know that," Stacy said with an eye roll. "I live with him. But this is different."

Wilson shrugged. "He's proud."

"He's an idiot, is what he is," Stacy muttered.

"Go easy on him," Wilson said. He stopped. "Well, not _too_ easy, but he did look rough when I talked to him."

"He thinks he's fine," Stacy said.

"Pride and denial are a powerful combination," Wilson said.

"No kidding," Stacy said. She paused and fidgeted, wringing her hands. "How—" she began, her voice catching. She swallowed and started again. "How…bad is it?" she asked.

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "I don't know," he said softly. He rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll know tomorrow." He took a deep breath. "He's fine right now. Tired and probably not feeling as good as he could be—" he glanced toward House's room, as if speaking to him, "—and he won't feel great if he keeps getting up like that," his gazed shifted back to Stacy and he smiled, "but he'll be fine until the surgery tomorrow morning. I asked him if he wanted something to eat but he wasn't hungry. You might want to ask later. He'll get a tray from the cafeteria, but…"

"It's not exactly the best around," Stacy finished, nodding.

"Right," Wilson said. "He might be asleep right now—he looked tired—but he's worried." Wilson mentally slapped his forehead. "Of course, I don't need to tell you that," he said. "Sorry."

"No," Stacy said, "thank you. I need to know."

Wilson nodded and turned to leave.

"James, wait," Stacy said. Wilson stopped and turned back around.

"Thank you—for everything you've done today."

Wilson smiled sadly. "I hope it's enough," he said. "You have my number if anything happens."

Stacy nodded.

"I might check in later," he said. "If not…I'll see you in the morning."

Stacy tried to smile for him as he walked away, but couldn't quite manage.

Oh, Greg. Stupid, stubborn, wonderful Greg. Nate's words came back to her: it's either him or the leg. He was so stubbornly attached to it. Didn't he understand the consequences for keeping it?

Of course he did, she thought with a sigh. He always had to do things the hard way, that was the problem.

She straightened up, stretched, and returned to the room.

* * *

House was half-asleep when Stacy slipped into the room. She sat down and watched him. He looked worse than he had earlier: paler, with deeper lines in his face. He didn't look peaceful or comfortable. She slumped in the chair and stared into space for a long time. When she finally snapped out of it, he looked slightly more comfortable. More deeply asleep. Good. He needed sleep. She knew that. But she did wish he was awake. He'd slept all morning and she'd watched him and it had been agonizing. If that happened again, she'd…

She couldn't finish the thought. He was just napping. He was all right. And he didn't need her watching him, so she stood up, slipped back out of the room, and went toward the cafeteria for coffee.

When she returned over half an hour later, he was still asleep, his face was scrunched this time. He was clearly uncomfortable. Frowning, she said his name softly. No response. She reached toward his cheek.

He was dreaming vividly of being held down on a table, screaming and begging while some unseen hand held a chainsaw above him. His leg was black and rotting, he could smell the stink of dead flesh, and it was incredibly painful, burning, stinging, flesh ripping, aching, but he was begging the chainsaw not to take it, writhing, screaming, but he couldn't move, couldn't get away. He was absolutely terrified and—

—a hand on his face and he snapped awake, breathing harshly.

He looked up: a questioning expression on her face. Was he all right?

"Bad dream," he said, bringing a hand up to his face to rub his eyes. They were stinging and he felt heavy and deeply tired. Renal failure. Right.

The same question: was he all right?

"I'm okay," he said.

Not quite satisfied but unwilling to push him, Stacy sat down.

"James said you finally came around," she said.

"Bet he took all the credit, didn't he?" House said, gripping the rails of the bed to pull himself up.

Stacy raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going anywhere," House said, stretching his upper body from side to side. "Just tired of lying down." He found the bed control and raised the head of the bed so he could lean back if he wanted to. He felt lightheaded already. Dammit.

Stacy let it go. "James said you get a last meal. What do you want?" She smiled, not a little seductively. "Anything goes."

"Anything?" House echoed, eyebrow raised playfully.

"Anything," Stacy repeated, meeting his eyebrow and raising him a leer.

House smiled a little and leaned back, considering his options.

"I like this 'anything,'" he said with smug suggestion. "Anything could be…anything. _Anything_."

"It's going to be nothing if you don't decide soon," Stacy teased.

"All right, all right," House said, tenting his fingers while he thought. "I would…like…a…New York Strip Steak, medium rare, from that little Spanish place on 6th."

"Fixins?"

"Pick something good," he said. "Potatoes, salad, something like that."

"You want to be a little more vague?" Stacy said sarcastically.

"What's vague about potatoes and salad?" House asked innocently.

"You were so specific about the steak…" Stacy pointed out.

"The steak is important," House said with a shrug.

"So…" Stacy said, "baked potato? Fries? Caesar salad? Chef salad?"

"Yes," House said with a grin.

Stacy eyed him.

After a moment of maintaining his innocent grin, House rolled his eyes and said, "Choices, choices, jeez. Baked potato, Caesar salad, and something with chocolate in it…cake or pie or something."

Stacy eyed him dubiously again.

House sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Cake first, then pie," he said. "Happy?"

Stacy smirked. "You're a picky eater when you want to be," she said. "The waiter can't just take it back and bring something else because you changed your mind this time."

"I've only done that a few times!" House said with exasperation. Then he smiled mischievously. "They really do pee in it."

"Oh, just because you did it doesn't mean everyone else does," Stacy said dismissively.

"Hey," House said with a warning finger, "you have no evidence to substantiate that claim. That's slander."

"Come on! You gloated about it when you were drunk on five separate occasions," Stacy answered. "That's all the evidence I need."

"You don't recognize a gross out attempt when it pukes on your shoes?" House asked.

"You know you're an honest drunk," Stacy said. "You're just annoyed because I know all your secrets now."

"So that's how it is," House said with an appraising gaze. "I'll have to get new secrets while you're gone." He smirked. "All these nurses—" he made a grand gesture meant to encompass the floor, "_one _of them has to like me. Or at least pity me enough to—"

"It's not a secret if you tell me ahead of time," Stacy teased.

"Oh, that's just to throw you off the scent," House said. "What I'm _really_ up to…well…you'll just have to wait and see, won't you."

"I guess I will," Stacy said. She got to her feet and found her purse. "Do you want anything from the apartment?"

"Can you bring the whole thing here—or better yet, take me there?" he asked, only half facetious.

Stacy's grim expression made him feel guilty for saying that.

"My toothbrush," he said contritely.

"Already here," Stacy said. She nodded to a bag next to the room's small dresser.

House followed her eye line. "Well," he said, "I'm out of ideas."

She stood and brushed his cheek with her thumb. "I'll be back soon," she said. "Call me if you think of anything you want."

"I will," he said and he sat forward for a quick goodbye kiss.

"Be good," she enjoined from the doorway.

His expression became impish.

"Greg," she admonished.

House held his hands up. "Okay, okay," he said with a smile.

She gave him one final glare that said he'd catch hell if he didn't behave himself and then she was gone.

House watched her leave, then let himself go lax. He was so tired. This really wasn't right. It was beginning to unnerve him. Television. He would turn on the television and that would make him feel better.

He fell asleep thinking about reaching for the remote and dreamed that he had. A strange episode of General Hospital played out in his head.

Sometime later House felt pressure on his arm and woke up slowly. His head was fuzzy, but he felt better. Sort of. He opened his eyes and a nurse smiled at him. Oh. Vitals. Right.

He blinked sleepily, followed the nurse's instructions, and fell asleep again before she'd finished taking his blood pressure.

He slept lightly and jerked awake again when someone tapped on his door.

Wilson. What did he want?

"Hey man," Wilson said closing the door behind him.

"Hey," House said, fully awake this time. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep but that last nap after the nurse took his vitals had made a real difference. Was Stacy back? No. He'd know if she were back.

Wilson approached and held a small stack of magazines out. House took them curiously.

"Thought you might want a little time on the throne before you go in tomorrow," Wilson said.

"So you brought me Field and Stream?" House said sardonically. "Thanks."

"There's the new Journal of American Oncology, too—and I know you haven't read it yet because _I _haven't read it yet—and a few others," Wilson said.

House flipped through the stack and found a year-old People and a month-old Hustler. His eyebrows jumped at the Hustler.

"Now I know you didn't find _this_ in a waiting room," he said.

He pulled it out and examined the front and back covers.

"No address label," he said. "Smart."

He looked at Wilson with a sarcastic gleam in his eye: "You have a dealer or do you actually risk being seen buying smut by a patient's family member?"

"I…borrowed it," Wilson said uncomfortably.

"Of course you did," House replied, smiling to himself, and put it back in the stack. "Thanks." He glanced outside quickly and scanned the room. "I _could_ use a little 'me' time."

"Half an hour okay?" Wilson asked. "Should take at least that long to pick up the food, never mind getting back here."

House cocked his head. How did Wilson know…?

"I ran into her on her way out," Wilson said before House could ask.

Appeased, House stretched and ran a hand through his hair. "Half an hour," he said. "I dunno. I haven't taken a dump in two days. But I'll see what I can do."

"I'll give you a warning knock in thirty minutes," Wilson said. He held up his wrist and indicated to his watch, "Want this?"

"Nah," House said, flipping the covers back and scooting forward. "She lives with me. She understands this is special time."

"Must be nice," Wilson muttered.

"Julie doesn't—?"

Wilson shook his head with a look of chagrin.

House shook his head sympathetically. "Sad state of affairs."

He put his left foot on the floor and tried to swing his right leg over, succeeding only making his foot wiggle ridiculously at the end of the bed like a fish flopping for air on a boat deck. Giving in quickly, he pulled his leg over the side of the bed with his hands and sat for a moment, wishing Wilson hadn't been there to see it but also glad he was there in case of any nasty spills between the bed and the bathroom. He did not relish lying on the cold linoleum floor until a nurse found him; in a flash, a commercial for one of those medical service systems for the elderly he always laughed at came into his head: an old woman lying on a bathroom floor saying in a feeble voice, 'Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!' He shook himself inwardly, aware that Wilson had moved to the other side of the bed and was waiting on his right side for him to stand.

"My advice is this," he said to the floor, "and this is a technique I've perfected, so if you do it right, it _will_ work. It may require some sacrifice on your part—I don't know how much you like Mexican food—but what you do is get the raunchiest Mexican food you can find—and lots of it—and either try to time it on days when you think she'll be likely to barge in on you, or do what I did and claim it's fine to eat Mexican every night for a week—depends on the woman, really—and just let 'er rip. Eventually it will work, though if it takes more than one time to keep her away when the door is closed, you might want to reconsider who you're going out with."

"That sounds fool proof," Wilson said admiringly. "Simple yet effective. It's almost poetic."

"Delicious, too, if you like raunchy Mexican."

"Ingenious."

"Almost," House said. "There is one downside."

Wilson raised an eyebrow in question.

House's expression became rueful. "I can't have Mexican for dinner anymore," he said. "Only for lunch and only if I'm going to be here for the afternoon."

"Rough."

"It's a trade-off. You've got to decide which is more important to you."

Wilson nodded.

House glanced up at him briefly, handed him the magazines, and hauled himself to his feet, left hand on the bed rail, right hand pushing up from the mattress. He balanced himself on his left foot. He was standing. No problem. Easy. He could go for another walk if he wanted.

He glanced at Wilson quickly and went about unhooking himself from the EKG. He pulled the pulse ox monitor off of his left forefinger and motioned to Wilson that he was ready to go.

They took a few steps across the room before House stopped. He looked down at the floor. It was cold; he could feel it under his right foot. Cold. He could feel it.

"I need to do this," he said to the floor. "I know it doesn't really matter but…I need to."

Wilson didn't say anything but House felt his hold loosen.

House planted his foot firmly on the floor and tried to put weight on it. His knee gave and Wilson caught him.

Wilson heard him sigh; he wasn't looking at House because he knew House wouldn't want to be looked at right now.

"Guess not," House said to the floor, not looking up.

"Hurt?" Wilson asked quietly.

He felt House slump slightly. "Didn't feel it," House said.

Wilson walked him to the bathroom door in silence and leaned in to put the magazines on the bathtub ledge where House could reach them later. He stepped back into the room and noted the distance: House could make it on his own.

House gave him a quizzical look: _why are you still here?_

"We won't know anything until tomorrow," Wilson said as he eyed House.

House's look became unreadable. "You're trying to give me hope?" he said flatly.

"I was just saying that…we don't know," Wilson said weakly with a vague shrug.

"No," House said, "we don't."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck idly, not realizing he was doing it. "Right," he said. He moved awkwardly toward the door. "Thirty minutes."


	17. Tender is the Night

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

Okay, I lied. Plot comes in the chapter after this one. I'm a sucker for the long and drawn out. ;)

**CONTENT WARNING:** The second scene contains implicit sexual content. I think it's within the parameters of the T rating and it's very implicit (i.e. suggested, not shown), but if sexual content bothers you, stop reading at the first scene break. You won't miss much. There are only two scenes.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Tender is the Night**

"This sucks," House said, picking at the salad with his fork. He sighed and tossed the fork across his plate of half-eaten steak and potatoes.

Stacy nodded slightly, making a sympathetic face. She knew what he meant and that he needed to vent right now.

"We should be at home watching TV or something," he grumbled. "Just…something that isn't here."

Stacy reached for his hand, cupping it gently while he talked the issue out.

"I…just wish I had some work to do…_something_," House continued. "I hate all this waiting. They should get a surgeon and go ahead and do this. Every hour they wait more tissue dies that can't be gotten back."

"You know why they're waiting until morning," Stacy said gently, stroking his hand with her thumb.

"Knowing doesn't make it any better or easier or faster," House said moodily.

"I know you're frustrated," Stacy said. "I'm sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?" House said throwing his free hand up. "You're the one who tried to get me to come back here earlier. If I had come back Saturday—even yesterday…" he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and tilting his head back on the raised bed. He opened them and stared at the ceiling. "It would've made a big difference. A really big difference. It could be the difference between…" his voice faded; he didn't want to say it, "…walking out of here and..."

"You'll be fine," Stacy said adamantly. "It's just a leg."

House glanced over at her quickly, then went back to staring at the wall. "I'm not going to have this argument again," he said.

"No," she agreed. "No."

Stacy stood up and collected the box House's dinner was in. "Should I save this?" she asked.

"I dunno," House said.

"Was it good?"

"I guess so," he said. "I couldn't really taste it."

Stacy smiled sadly as she put the container away. "Dessert?" she asked, holding up a small box hopefully. "It's cake. Double chocolate."

House looked over at her. She really was good to him. "Okay," he said and tried to smile.

Stacy noted his expression and held back. "Do you feel okay?" she asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

"I feel fine," House said, shaking his head with disbelief and throwing his hands up. "Totally and completely fine. That's the problem. I want to go home and sleep in our bed tonight. I don't want to be here." He sighed and shook his head again. "Forgive me if I'm not that hungry."

"Okay," Stacy said with a real smile, "I'll save it for you."

"Thanks," he said. He watched her pack away the leftovers. He could taste steak and Caesar dressing on his tongue still—slightly—but the whole thing felt so much like a last meal that he hadn't been able to savor it. A thought occurred to him.

"Are you gonna eat?" he asked.

"Not hungry," Stacy muttered, not making eye contact with him.

"You're no good to me if you get hypoglycemic and pass out," House said with strained joviality.

"I'll get something later," Stacy said, resuming her post next to the bed.

House grunted, not believing her but unwilling to push the subject.

He bent his left forefinger back and forth, contemplating the pulse-ox monitor.

"I know how this equipment works," he said after a moment, "I could break out and come back in the morning. They won't miss me."

Stacy smiled apologetically when House looked over at her.

"Yeah, I know," House said. "I just don't know how I'm going to sleep here. I mean, I'm not going to sleep anyway, but at least at home it doesn't smell like work and old people."

"I'm sure they could give you something," Stacy suggested.

"I don't want anything," House said with a sigh. "No drugs. Just for this not to be happening."

"I know," Stacy said with a sad smile and kissed his hand.

"Aw, don't do that," House said taking his hand back, surveying his body. "I'm disgusting. I need a shower."

He paused for a moment, considering the idea, then sat up and pushed the tray aside.

"Will you see about soap and towels?" House asked. When Stacy didn't move right away, House added, "I want to do this while I still can."

Stacy didn't hesitate this time. House pulled the pulse-ox monitor off and was busy with the EKG leads when she came back.

"Soap but no towels," she said.

"Ask the nurses," House said, making short work of the leads.

Stacy nodded and went toward the door, nearly colliding with a nurse.

House heard the scuffle. "I'm taking a shower," he said to the nurse without looking up. "Could use some towels."

Stacy shot a glare at him. "Please," she added with an apologetic smile.

House pulled the oxygen cannula out of his nose and slid to the edge of the bed, eager to do what he'd set his mind to. He noticed to his surprise and delight that the annoyance that was the Foley catheter was gone, but he didn't recall its removal. That troubled him. He'd slept through it? One didn't normally sleep through something like that… He shook himself. He wouldn't start ruminating on how ill he was. No. He was fine and he was going to take a shower and that would make him feel better.

The nurse brought in a fresh gown, two towels, and other supplies. House let her take care of the IV so he wouldn't get it wet. Once she had reminded him not to take too long lest his electrolytes bottom out again, given him supplies for a urine sample, grilled him about his dinner, and asked other questions that House found too intrusive, he was ready to growl, snarl, spit, or yell—whatever would get her to leave the fastest. The nurse caught on to his mood and left him with a final reminder about checking his vitals in half an hour, closing the blinds before she exited.

"Alone at last," House said sarcastically, tapping the specimen cup against the tray, ready to launch himself up. The hot water was calling his name.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" Stacy asked, visibly concerned. The nurse's comments about his electrolytes had reminded her that he really was unwell. The harsh, unreal swirl of memory was still too fresh for comfort—first this morning, his frantic attempt to communicate to her and how horrible he'd looked in the ER, and then this afternoon, arriving to his room only to find that he'd passed out after the MRI. And again after his ill-conceived outing. Then after James talked to him. She sighed inwardly. His body was exhausted but he didn't seem to realize it or want to acknowledge it. _That's why he needs to be here tonight_, she reminded herself. She knew how badly he wanted to go home, to put the morning off as best he could, but he was sick—sicker than he wanted anyone to know—and if it were possible for him to go home, James would have pulled strings to let him.

"My butt is numb," House said. "Even if everything goes as well as possible, it will be a while before I can stand up again."

Stacy nodded stoically, trying hard to keep his words from getting to her. _How long before he could stand up again?…_if _he could…_if _he made it at all… _She forced herself to stop thinking.

"You should go home after this," House said, tapping the cup again. He sensed she needed placating and he couldn't stand up and placate right now. He pushed that thought away too. He wasn't helpless. "Get something to eat. Some sleep. I'll be useless all night."

"I'm not leaving you alone tonight," Stacy said stolidly.

"I won't be alone," House said, nodding toward the door. "The nurses will be bugging me every hour."

"Greg," Stacy admonished. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Still…" House said reflectively. He didn't want her to know this…but she needed to know it. Damn. "Tomorrow is going to be…difficult."

Stacy nodded guardedly. He was on the cusp of telling her something everyone else had been avoiding.

"Dr. Cuddy mentioned post-operative pain," she said carefully.

"Yeah," House said, making a face. "I'm not going to be much fun to be around."

"She seemed worried," Stacy said. Not knowing how to phrase it, she let her face ask the question: _how worried should I be?_

House understood. "I can handle it," he said. "In a way, pain is good. If it hurts, it's still alive…it can still be salvaged. The longer it lasts, the more utility I'll have when it's over."

"The longer it lasts…" Stacy said, worry clouding her face. "How long do you think…I mean, you're talking about…are you talking about hours…?"

"It's impossible to say, really," House said, trying to brush the question off. Damn. He shouldn't have brought it up. But then again, she should be prepared.

"Can you give me some idea?" Stacy asked.

House hesitated.

"Anything…?"

"This is an unusual case," House said slowly. "It could be a few hours and…it could be…a few days."

"_Days_!" Stacy exclaimed. "Greg, no—you can't—" Stacy paused to collect herself. "What if you go with amputation?"

"I'm not going to discuss it," House said, jaw clenching.

"What about debridement?" Stacy said. "Cuddy said that—"

"No," House said firmly. "Not an option."

Stacy looked stricken.

House reached out for her hand. "Look," he said honestly, "I can get through this. It's not going to be easy. I'll probably be miserable and you know how I get when I'm miserable." Stacy smiled a little at that and House squeezed her hand. "But what's a day or two matter if I've got the rest of my life?"

She shook her head. "I can't believe you're doing this." But she was smiling sadly, acceptingly. It was his choice whether she liked it or not.

"Have to," House said.

She nodded, her smile becoming more fragile. "Well…whatever happens, I'll be here."

"I know," House answered with his own fragile smile.

The moment lingered…just for a while…not long enough.

House tapped the top of the specimen cup authoritatively with his finger. "I should get started," he said. "I'm on the clock." He got to his feet effortlessly, having learned how to push off with his hands. "You said my toothbrush was here…?"

Stacy nodded. This she could take care of. "So is your razor," she said as she dug through the bag. She glanced up suggestively.

House pretended to consider the idea. "Shaving really cuts into my shower time," he said.

Stacy came up with his toothbrush and shaving kit, raised an eyebrow at him, and put them both in the bathroom.

"Well, if you say so," House said rolling his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that he was waiting for her to come back because he couldn't take the five steps to the bathroom by himself.

Like Wilson had earlier, Stacy wordlessly slipped under his right arm.

"Got everything?" she asked from the doorway as he picked up his toothbrush.

"Think so," he said.

"I'll be out here," Stacy said, "let me know if you need anything."

House nodded, squeezing paste onto the brush.

Stacy closed the door reluctantly. Could he reach everything? Could he get into the shower by himself? What about the tile floor after he'd showered, would he slip?

She worried for a moment, listening to him brush his teeth; then she had an idea. She smiled. Yes. He'd like this idea a lot.

* * *

House awkwardly soaped himself with one hand. Brushing his teeth, peeing in the cup (a sickly too-bright orange-brown that was only slightly better than what he'd seen earlier, he noted with disgust), shaving quickly, getting over the hurdle that was the bathtub wall, having to hold himself in place using the built-in metal bar—all of it was such a pain in the ass. Was this what he had to look forward to for the rest of his life? Yeah, he thought, it was if he let them talk him into debridement. They didn't know his body like he knew his body: it could handle this. He'd make it out of here the same way he came in: whole. This wasn't going to be his life. Shit, he couldn't even risk bending down to wash his legs and feet thoroughly—and all of it was taking too long. He hated being rushed.

He tried to soap his back and, unable to reach, began cursing a variety of people and things with a remarkably fluent vocabulary when suddenly the shower curtain moved and oh holy God, Stacy was joining him.

He caught the soap just before it slipped from his fingers, mouth ajar.

But of course, this was exactly the sort of thing she'd do. And she had on that predatory look she got when she had a clear agenda she wanted to pursue.

He gulped.

The sight of her naked never failed to do things to him and he found himself in trouble as she took the soap from him and started working on his back. The warmth of the water, her smell surrounding him, her strong hands on his back, slick with soap, massaging his tired muscles—if he could just have this forever. He moaned softly every time she hit a knot of tension.

"It's unfair," House said in a half-moan.

"What?" Stacy asked above the noise of the water.

"I said it's unfair," House repeated. "No one should be so sexy. It should be a crime, how sexy you are."

Stacy moved her ministrations further down until she was working on the small of his back. "You're complaining?" she said into his ear.

"I don't know," House moaned. "I can't think anymore."

"Then don't think," she said and moved lower, rubbing his left hamstring and calf. He stiffened when she touched his right calf, so she trailed her hands lightly up his leg to his hips.

"You're excited," she observed.

"It's not my fault," House said, making a funny face. He waved a dismissive hand toward his hips. "You know how he gets."

"Touché," Stacy said. She rubbed his neck and scalp, happy to hear his little moans of pleasure, then stepped back. "Turn around," she said.

"Is this going where I think it's going?" House asked, carefully turning, both hands gripping the bar. Finally he was facing her and the hot water was running down his back. He felt so good. He knew he had the stupidest grin on his face, but if she wasn't used to it by now, well… He couldn't finish that thought. He couldn't remember why it was important, either, so he just kept grinning at her. He was fairly certain they had an understanding about this sort of thing.

Stacy shrugged in answer to his question, stepped forward, and started soaping his chest. "Just a little something to help you sleep," she said. "Better than all the drugs in the world."

"C'mere," House said as Stacy rubbed his stomach. She quirked an eyebrow but obeyed. House pulled her into a kiss and did the best he could with one hand to explore and stimulate.

Stacy pulled away sooner than House would have liked and he looked quizzically at her.

"We're being timed," Stacy explained. "It would be very naughty of us to make the nurse come all the way in here to check your pulse."

"That would be very naught of us—ohhhh." Stacy's hands had traveled further south and found their goal.

Then she disappeared and then he couldn't think at all.

Something about the warmth of the water, the smell of the soap, the smell of her, the long day he'd had—something was making him extra sensitive. She knew him too well too. She could make it last five minutes or draw it out until he was begging. Tonight, he sensed, was going to be short. He was grateful, as much as he hated to be, that it was going to be so short. He was starting to feel the effects of increased potassium. Which were…? He couldn't think when she was doing that to him. His mind went blank for a moment and then he had it: tired, that was it, he was tired.

_Such a wuss_, he thought to himself. Less than a minute in and he was starting to shake. She was so good at this. It really was unfair.

"Stace," he panted, "if you…do this…I won't…ohthatsgood…I won't…be able…to walk…ohhh…at all."

Stacy paused and looked up. "Relocate?" she purred. Her tongue darted out.

House sucked in air. She knew exactly what that did to him.

"Yeah," he said when he could speak again. "If you don't—oh—stop soon, I'll be sleeping in the bathtub."

She paused again. "Is that really such a bad thing?" she asked innocently. Then she did that thing he loved and his entire body jerked before he could stop it. He tried to think the most un-sexy thoughts he could, but if she kept going like she was…

He was concentrating so hard on picturing Ruth Bader Ginsberg in a bikini that he didn't notice she'd stopped and stood up until her hand was on his face. Devotion and desire greeted him when he opened his eyes and he pulled her to him with one hand again for a long kiss and as much contact as he could make without losing his balance. _This_, he wanted _this_ forever.

A long time short of forever she was turning the shower off and handing him a towel, then helping him dry off and slip into a new gown. He'd managed to calm down immensely in that time, proper blood flow returning to his brain.

"I wish I had a tie to put around the door knob," House observed as she helped him limp back to bed.

The cold floor under his feet and having to move around so much had had an effect on him, but he would still be suitably embarrassed if someone were to walk in now. Gowns that tied in the front were the bane of his existence. Never mind the fact that Stacy was wearing nothing but a towel and it was too short for her by several inches.

"I wish this door had a knob to hang a tie on," Stacy responded.

"Yeah," House agreed as he shifted on to the bed. Having to pick his own leg up was disconcerting, but Stacy was there before him in a tiny white towel and he could feel the heat from the shower radiating off of her body. He wouldn't worry about it.

House sighed happily as he lay back, not caring about reattaching the equipment around him. He'd be deeply asleep inside of five minutes if this was still going where he thought it was. The fact that Stacy wasn't bothering about clothes told him that it was. He closed his eyes. He was so tired right now. The shower had taken more out of him than he'd expected. Maybe Cuddy was right about postponing the by-pass until tomorrow. He was in bad shape…

"Mmm," he murmured tiredly, soaking in the warmth of the shower and fresh, tired feeling it had left him with, "feels good."

Then he felt expert hands on him again and he sucked in a breath. "So does that," he said contentedly.

"Don't try to stay awake," Stacy instructed before she began. "You need to sleep."

"Yes ma'am," House said, eyes closing as she started again. His breath hitched. She was too good at this. Every part of it was familiar but it never failed to drive him insane. For a long time all he could do was make inarticulate noises of pleasure. He had a sense that something bad was going to happen to him soon—tomorrow?—but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was. Stacy was right: no drug on earth could touch this.

When he could speak again, he said, "Can I say—" he gasped as she hit another special spot in just the right way, "—thank you in advance?"

"Mmm," Stacy said, "you can and did." He felt her pause and opened his eyes to see why she'd stopped. She was giving him one of those dead sexy head-on stares that made him writhe. "I see I've got your attention," she said devilishly. "Now shut up and give in."

House moaned and let his head drop back against the mattress. She was doing _that_ thing now and he was out of options. Let the world walk in on him now; he didn't care.


	18. Waiting

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Warnings:** WIP  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

* * *

**Chapter 17: Waiting**

When House woke up, he was alone. The room was dark, the hall was dark, the floor was asleep. He breathed in, quietly, softly, and glanced at the area Stacy had been inhabiting. It was poorly lit, but he didn't see her purse. Good. She'd gone home. He hoped she was asleep right now. At ease. Not worrying about him. She needed it. She was so good to him. And knowing she was worrying about him displeased him because he didn't like her worrying, especially about him. Really interfered with the sex.

He paged a nurse. With so much saline running through him, he was going to have the bladder of a nervous rabbit tonight. That was what had woken him up. Maybe Wilson had been right about leaving it in, though if it had been left in, Stacy's gift to him wouldn't have happened. He smiled at the memory. He couldn't think of a better way to get to sleep. She was too good to him. He hoped she slept for a long time. She needed it and she had no idea what was coming tomorrow. She was in for a shock. Even he didn't know just how bad it would be, but he knew it was going to be worse than anything he'd ever experienced.

He squeezed off a sample for the lab (that was all he was right now: a specimen factory) and turned the television on. It was still early. Leno hadn't gotten through his opening monologue yet. Jokes about Clinton weren't doing it for him and after a while, he found himself staring at his leg through the blanket. He pushed the blanket and the tail of the gown aside and looked at the pale flesh itself. It looked like the belly of a fish. He was peeing burnt orange because of it. Bags of fluid were hanging over his head and running into his arm because of it. He felt tired and sick because of it. _It's just a leg_. There was a good reason she was a lawyer.

He tried wiggling his toes. Yes, he could do that. He tried lifting it. No. That hurt and didn't work. Cells were dying. Tissue was dying. He was dying—as long as he was attached to a dying limb.

Eight hours. Eight more hours until the area received food and oxygen again. Eight long hours. He didn't know if he could bear so much waiting.

He was beginning to serious contemplate asking for whatever sedative Wilson had left for him—it was the coward's way out, but he couldn't stand feeling so useless—when the door slid open and there she was.

He smiled. It felt good to see her. It felt good not to be alone right now.

"Hey," he said, sitting up, though the head of the bed was still raised. "You look good."

"Amazing what a shower will do," she answered, bending down for a kiss.

That felt good. She smelled good. Her lips were warm against his. He didn't want her to let go, but he didn't want her to know how vulnerable he felt right now either, so he pulled away at the appropriate moment. She put her purse down and settled into the chair she'd spent the better part of the day in.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked.

Her mouth twitched. "Funny," she said. "I was just going to ask you that."

House's mouth twitched too. "I just woke up," he said.

She nodded. He waited for her to answer. She didn't.

"Now you tell me how much sleep you got," he said. "That's the way it works."

"I laid down for a while," she answered. "Couldn't sleep."

Before he could respond, she was digging through her purse. "Brought you something," she said.

He watched her curiously. She produced a…black marker? He cocked his head. What?

"You doctors don't always know your right from your left," she said.

Oh. House's face remained neutral. "They won't be doing any cutting," he said.

"Just in case," Stacy countered, standing and offering him the marker.

House hadn't covered his leg back up, so he merely pushed the blanket down further. She bent over and began writing. Black ink on the skin of his left leg. He could feel it, the tip pressing into his flesh, and smell it. He watched her message take shape: "Not this leg" in all capital letters, "this" underlined twice and an exclamation point at the end.

She looked up and smiled a little, asking if he approved. He did. He glanced at his right leg, and bent his left leg so it was out of the way.

"Not that one either," he said.

She understood, smiling sadly, and began to write across the top of his right leg too. "Not this leg either."

She capped the marker and smiled at him. He couldn't smile back. Both of his legs were marked now; the danger that one might be missing when he came to later hit him again and he looked to his left, pressing his head against the pillow. She was trying to help. He appreciated it, but these were his limbs and on some level, she just couldn't understand.

"Now we wait?" she asked.

He glanced over at her. She was anxious. He forgot how well she could read him.

"Now we wait," he confirmed.

She sat back down and took his hand.

It was the longest night of his life.

* * *

Around 2 a.m., he glanced over at her and found her with her eyes closed and head tilting to the side.

"Stacy," he said.

She started. "Mmm?"

He wanted to smile at the cute, sleepy face that greeted him, but he couldn't. Instead, he patted the bed between the two of them.

"Come here," he said.

She blinked at him. "No," she objected, "I'll hurt you."

"No," he started, "I—" _it's dead, I won't feel it_ "It's okay. Come on."

His expression convinced her and she went around to his left side and awkwardly lay down next to him. He liked the feel of her against him, her hand resting on his chest, her head in the crook of his shoulder. This was exactly how they slept sometimes—usually directly before or after sex. This was her cuddle position.

There was nothing either of them could say, so they were silent. He doubted she was comfortable and was about to ask her if she would consider lying down in his office when he noticed she'd fallen asleep. Again, he wanted to smile, but he couldn't. He turned the television off and reached to turn the light off instead, hugging her closer to him with his left arm.

He held a finger up to his lips when one of the night nurses entered to check on him. She smiled faintly, checked his vitals, and asked him whether he wanted the sedative Wilson had left when she returned to collect another round for the lab. He thought about it briefly before nodding. He couldn't stand much more of this waiting.

The rest of the night was a blur. He was nudged awake several times, gave another urine sample, felt Stacy sigh against him and later felt her get up, answered a nurse's standard wake-up questions, and then Cuddy was bending over him again.

It was time. He wasn't ready.

Cuddy offered him the latest labs and then Larsen was in there too, telling him that his kidney function had improved by leaps and bounds overnight. He shook his head, _don't care, I don't care_.

Then Larsen was gone and Wilson arrived with some guy he didn't recognize. The guy offered a hand to be shaken.

"I'm Dr. Jensen."

House listened to him describe the procedure, wanting to interrupt with some rude comment about how he knew exactly what was going to happen and would this idiot please get on with it, but he couldn't speak. He had never been so scared.

Jensen left and Cuddy took questions from Stacy. _How long will the procedure last? When can I see him? Will he be okay?_

House knew all of those answers, but he was the patient and the patient wasn't supposed to know anything. The patient was supposed to be silent. The patient was supposed to shit his pants with fear, kiss his loved ones goodbye, and let the compassionate doctor hold his hand as he was wheeled in to that mysterious room no one ever saw, the O.R. He could do this procedure himself—anyone could guide a wire through an artery and snag a clot, it wasn't hard—but he was the patient and he was supposed to be scared, anxious, and ignorant. Everyone was ignoring him. He was supposed to endure—be brave, be silent, survive—nothing else. He wanted to let them now how nervous he was, but he couldn't speak.

Still fuzzy from the sedative and deeply inured in his own terror, he didn't notice when Wilson broke from the doctor-loved one group and came to the other side of the bed.

"Jensen knows what he's doing," Wilson said.

House blinked and turned his head from Stacy and Cuddy to Wilson. "Yeah," he said.

"You holding up?" Wilson asked.

"I'm ready to do this," House said. So what if it was a lie. He couldn't say anything but that.

Wilson nodded. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes," he said.

"What about—" The terminology had left him, so he rubbed the area between his clavicle and sternum and then the radial artery of his right hand.

Wilson got the message. "They'll put them in when you get there," he said.

House absorbed the information. Of course. That made sense. "Are you gonna—" Again, he couldn't get the words out. _Will you be there?_ he wanted to ask.

Wilson seemed to understand. "Do you want me to?"

House hesitated. Yes, he wanted his friend there. Yes, he wanted a familiar face. But no, he didn't want Wilson to see how scared he was. No, he didn't want Wilson to watch while the anesthesiologist put him under. But yes, he wanted Wilson there because Wilson knew what was going on and he could stop them if they tried to do something he didn't want them to do. But no, he didn't want Wilson to see him so scared.

"I don't know," he said.

Again, Wilson seemed to understand. "Okay," he said. "How about I'll be there until you tell me to leave?"

"Okay," House said, grateful that Wilson understood what he was going through, but also resentful of Wilson for being so compassionate. Couldn't someone screw up right now and let him scream and yell? Didn't they realize how much better that would make him feel?

No. That wasn't the way things were done.

Wilson gestured toward the EKG patches on his chest, not actually intending to touch him: just to remind him that they needed to be taken off. He took the cue and started removing them while Wilson turned the monitor off. He was meat with electricity running through him. That was all. Just meat and electricity and fear.

A gurney arrived. Now it really was time. Wilson and Cuddy stepped back to let he and Stacy have their moment.

She looked at him with beautiful, sad, worried eyes and took his right hand in both of hers. She was already scared and nervous; he couldn't tell her he was scared. He couldn't add to the list of things she already had to worry about.

"I love you," she said. She wanted to cry right now but she was holding back. He could tell.

"I love you too," he answered.

It was so sappy and stupid when he had to watch this exchange between a patient and a loved one. Normally he broke it up: time was of the essence and the patient needed to get on the table. Now…he didn't want to let her go. He didn't want to ride down the hall to the elevator with Wilson and Cuddy walking next to him. He didn't want to watch ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights slip by. He didn't want any of it.

She bent down to kiss his cheek. "I'll be there when you wake up," she said.

He didn't know what else to say. He couldn't tell her, _That's great, sweetheart, but I'll be out of my mind when I wake up. You won't recognize me. I won't recognize you._ Why was this happening? Why?

He took a deep breath and broke eye contact, looking now to Wilson and Cuddy: the signal that he was ready.

God, he wasn't ready. No. Please. Don't take me.

Stacy moved, letting go of his hand, and an orderly wheeled the gurney next to the bed. He slid over. Blanket gone, the black marker on his legs surprised him. He'd forgotten about that. Wilson and Cuddy hadn't seen it either, judging by their amused reaction. Both looked at him, then at Stacy. She must have sent the right non-verbal signal, because no one spoke. The orderly draped a sheet over his lower half, put the bag of saline and electrolytes next to him, and then it was time to go.

The ride to the surgical prep room was bad enough when he imagined it. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the ceiling tiles and florescent lights, or Cuddy and Wilson walking next to him.

When he opened his eyes, a new set of nurses greeted him. Wilson watched while Cuddy and the nurses injected a local anesthetic and started a central line. He wasn't supposed to watch (he was the ignorant patient), so he fixed his attention on the ceiling. He couldn't feel it, but he could smell blood and tubing and latex gloves. Then they moved to his right wrist and he felt the sting of lidocaine, then nothing else while they started the arterial line. He saw a nurse leave with a sample. One test before they began. Yes. That made sense.

The surgical nurses continued the prep—shaving and sterilizing the point on his leg where Jensen would insert the catheter, covering his hair with a cap—and Cuddy asked him if he wanted something right now to calm him down, make the time between prep and scooting on to the table go faster, blur his memory of these ghastly events.

Yes. He desperately wanted something.

"No," he answered. "I'm fine."

She nodded and smiled. "They'll be ready for you in a few minutes."

Wilson still stood there. He wanted Wilson to leave, too. He wanted total abandonment, total isolation. He wanted to show the fear he felt with impunity. He wanted Wilson to go hold Stacy's hand. Stacy was the one who was really scared. He was fine. He didn't need anyone to hold his hand. He was cool, calm, and ready. But he couldn't speak. He stared at the ceiling.

Cuddy came back—she'd been gone?—and offered him the ABG results. He took them. They were a distraction. He needed a distraction. He read them silently while a nurse injected the proper corrective elements. More than ever, he knew that this surgery needed to happen now. He gave the piece of paper back to her and she asked him if he had any questions.

No. No questions.

Okay. She would see him when he woke up.

Okay.

She was gone. Wilson still stood there. And then it really was time to go.

"I'm not sterile," Wilson said, taking his hand and giving it a final squeeze. "I'll be watching."

House nodded. That was okay. Wilson let his hand go and then it was time.

The distance between the prep room and the procedure room was short. He knew that. He'd conducted procedures in this room. He'd supervised procedures in this room.

He scooted on to the table through a mass of tubes and wires. He could hear his heart beating when they plugged him in to the monitor. He tried not to pay attention to the sterile cloths being draped around his leg. The cloth that was supposed to hide the blood and gore from him in case he woke up during the procedure went up.

The anesthesiologist introduced himself. How was Dr. House this morning? What kind of a question was that? He grunted. He could feel the nurse nearby who would intubate him when he was out. It was time.

The anesthesiologist put a mask over his nose and mouth and told him to breathe deeply and count backwards from ten.

He counted.

Ten. Fear erupted in his chest, they would get everything wrong, he would wake up without a leg, he would die right now Nine he would die right now, this was it, Wilson would watch and not be able to stop it Eight he wasn't going to make it, this was it, he was going to sleep for the last time, this was it Seven stretched on and on and on and on into oblivion.

"Scalpel."


	19. Pain

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy, House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

It sucks to be House in this chapter, but you all knew it was coming. Thanks to Auditrix for helping with the medical side of this one.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Pain**

Wilson watched Jensen and his team finish up from the observation deck. The clot was gone. Now it was up to House. Either his body would survive the reperfusion of blood into dead tissue and successfully eliminate as much of the waste as it could or it would force him to change his mind about debridement or amputation. Since the former was impossible, the latter would have to occur. The only difference was when it occurred. How much pain could House take? How much cellular waste could his kidneys process before shutting down entirely?

He sighed and rubbed his neck. He hated the fact that he had to ask himself those questions; he certainly didn't want the answers—though he'd thought about little else since yesterday afternoon.

Julie had been great last night, letting him talk out his fears about this surgery and rant about House's stubbornness. She'd made a delicious meal for him, anticipating his mood, and he'd rubbed her feet, then she'd done several other things he liked in an attempt to take his mind off of the situation. He appreciated it: it was the only reason he'd gotten any sleep at all. He tried to tell her how difficult the next few days would be—never mind the next few weeks—but he wasn't sure she realized how serious he was. She had a tendency to laugh off certain aspects of his profession. He liked that about her because he had trouble laughing at all sometimes. She was so nice to come home to after a long day. But some things she just didn't understand yet…

He yawned, unable to stop himself. Today was going to be very, very long. He was tired already and it had only just begun. Stacy was waiting outside. He and Cuddy had convinced her that it would be a very quick procedure and the likelihood of something going wrong was minimal. She'd wisely chosen to stay in the waiting room, but only if he came right out and told her how it went.

He sighed again. Time for him to hold up his end of the bargain.

* * *

Cuddy left Wilson and Stacy outside. The surgical team had had time to clean him up and park him in recovery, and now it was time to wake him up and assess his level of pain. She knew that both Wilson and Stacy wanted to come back with her to check on House and she sensed that Wilson would have come no matter what if Stacy hadn't been there. She was glad he'd chosen to stay with House's girlfriend because regardless of the exact nature of their friendship, she could tell from the few hours that she'd seen them together or referencing one another that they were very close. And Wilson was taking this almost as badly as Stacy—worse in some ways because she hadn't seen him vent his emotions. She knew his reputation—everyone knew his reputation—and if he could handle oncology every day, he probably had more resources for coping than she'd observed. But on the other hand if he cared so much about his patients—people he didn't know—then how would he react to a sick friend? Especially one as…ahem…_unique_ as House. Because she knew House's reputation too: he'd had one, even as an undergraduate, even a school as big as Michigan and a department as big as biology. She'd never imagined she'd be treating him.

She stopped next to the gurney he was on. He was unconscious, breathing slowly. Comfortable. She hated to have to wake him up, but it had to be done.

The anesthesiologist informed her of the drugs and dosages he'd been given and recommended a morphine drip and an extra five milligrams if he needed it after they were sure he was oriented to time and place. She agreed with his recommendation and nodded at a nurse who was ready to connect the drip.

And then it was time to wake him up.

The anesthesiologist did the honors. As she did with all special patients, Cuddy immediately distanced herself from everything but the medical facts as the anesthesiologist pushed the drug.

House breathed in suddenly, his expression changing from slack tranquility to distorted agony in less than a second. His entire body tensed. The soft, low groan that had followed his intake of air grew louder and higher until it approached a wail. The heart monitor began beeping frantically as his heart rate rose.

"Dr. House!" Cuddy shouted above the din.

He stopped, eyes flying open, suddenly aware that he was the one making that noise. His heart rate spiked, abject terror and pain in his eyes. And recognition. She saw recognition.

"Do you know where you are?" she asked quickly, wanting to establish orientation but also wanting to treat the pain he was in.

House stared at her for a millisecond before clamping his eyes shut, breathing fast and hard, and reaching unconsciously for his leg as he rode out an intense wave of pain. When it was over, his eyes burst open and he nodded briefly, knowing that he had to answer before he got something.

Cuddy could tell he was doing his best not to scream. "Push the morphine," she said quickly as his heart rate rose even higher.

He gasped breathlessly, shaking with tension, eyes darting around the room. He was shocked by the amount of pain he was in. Whatever he'd expected, he hadn't expected _this_. He hadn't even imagined pain could be this bad. His leg was on fire, each half-dead cell letting him know just how pissed off it was at being deprived of food and oxygen.

"Dr. House," Cuddy said calmly but authoritatively, "we've started you on a drip, 2 milligrams per hour, and you're getting five more right now. Let me know if you experience weakness, dizziness, or difficulty breathing."

He tried to indicate that he understood, but he wasn't too concerned if she didn't get the message. He felt it hit in a dizzy wash but it wasn't doing anything. He could still feel every inch of his leg in full-on rebellious fury. He couldn't do anything but shake and shudder until slowly he felt the drug taking effect and his muscles unclenching. He stopped panting so harshly, the frantically beeping heart monitor quieting proportionately, and gasped and sputtered noises of relief.

To Cuddy's trained eye, the change was too extreme. "Watch his BP," she said, eyes fixed on the heart monitor.

She glanced down at him. She could tell he was still in pain, but the narcotic effect of the drug had calmed him considerably.

"Dr. House?" she said.

House opened his eyes and looked at her—or rather, past her, his gaze going out of focus.

"Better," he said hoarsely. He cringed. "Still hurts," he said tightly, screwing his eyes shut for a moment as a wave of pain engulfed him. He sighed when the wave crested and receded, and blinked, trying to fix his gaze on her. "But better."

He started blinking hard at the air in front of him when one of the nurses said, "His blood pressure's dropping."

Cuddy, whose gaze had shifted back to the heart monitor when his heart rate hadn't started stabilizing, nodded shortly.

"House, can you—"

House grunted, blinking heavily, "I'm really dizzy—" His voice faded, the last syllable barely a whisper as he passed out.

"He's having a reaction," Cuddy said. "Two milligrams naloxone." She watched the EKG closely as a nurse administered the neutralizing agent. His heart rate and blood pressure dropped steadily for a long twenty seconds before they stabilized and began improving.

A few minutes later, House was awake again, gasping and rigid.

"Dr. House," Cuddy said peering down at him. "You had a reaction to the morphine."

"I figured that out," House gasped. "I need more. Not allergic."

"We have to wait until your vitals stabilize," Cuddy said.

"I'm stable," House gasped. He felt the pain begin to build again. "Ow, God, I'm—" he grit his teeth tightly, "—stable—I'm—oh, God, come on!"

"Dr. House," Cuddy said, "calm down. You're making it worse. Breathe through your nose."

House did his best to comply, but he was in too much pain.

"Your heart rate is erratic," Cuddy said.

"Don't care," House gasped. "You have to give me something."

"We'll give you more, but you have to calm down first," Cuddy said.

"I am calm!" House shouted. "You have no idea—"

"We can still amputate, or start debriding," Cuddy said matter-of-factly. "Either of those would help the pain."

"No!" House said. "No. You're not taking my leg." He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built up. "I can do this," he said tightly, "but you have to give me something."

"Your system is too compromised," Cuddy said. "You might go into cardiac arrest if we give you more too soon."

"I don't care!" House shouted. "Halve the dosage and double the titration time, I don't care what you do, but you _have to give me something_!"

"Dr. House," Cuddy said authoritatively, "you're talking. You're okay if you're talking. You know this. Calm down."

"I am calm!" House shouted again. He closed his eyes, panting through his teeth. He was learning the pattern already. Just like a wave with peaks and valleys and the descent and ascent between the two. Cuddy said he'd been talking. Yeah, he'd been talking while the pain had been descending into a valley. Now it was rising to a crest and he couldn't speak or think. He fought it as it rose, his face burning with effort, but he couldn't stop himself from screaming this time, his left hand digging frantically at the dressing, his back and neck arching off the gurney.

Two pairs of strong hands caught his arms, pinning them against the mattress. He ran out of air quickly and the scream broke off. His eyes snapped open. He was dizzy from the relief of descending pain and breathing so quickly and shortly he saw spots in his vision.

"Dr. House!" Cuddy's voice cut in. "We're going to have to restrain you if you keep doing that."

"Doing what?" House mumbled, so relieved that he could barely think or speak.

"Trying to rip the dressing off," Cuddy said.

"I didn't realize I was—" it cut him off, rising rapidly, "oh God, I can't—this is—oh God—" He screamed again, unaware that he was tugging with all his might against the two nurses trying to hold his arms down.

"Hard restraints and one milligram Ativan," Cuddy ordered. She'd been studying the monitors surrounding House. His cardiac function was erratic still, yes, but she'd detected a pattern. It wasn't a reaction any longer; it was just pain. And probably a good amount of fear and terror and panic.

House snuffed air in and out as his heart rate dropped and pain subsided. Cuddy took the opportunity to fire off an order for more morphine and derive a titration time. She would see how he did with the Ativan first to determine how much of this was pure pain and how much was a fear response. House was limp and breathless, letting the nurses restrain his forearms without any complaint. His breathing picked up suddenly with a shuddering "no" and pain flashed across his face as they finished with the restraints. Cuddy watched as another nurse pushed the Ativan.

It took effect right as the wave of pain crested. House was too dizzy and knocked back by the new drug to manage a scream. Harsh, smothered yelps came out instead and he was putting up a mighty struggle with the restraint on his left arm, but some of the fight had clearly left him.

"Calm down," Cuddy said sternly.

"I am calm," House said through his teeth. The Ativan was relaxing his tensed muscles against his will.

"You're trying to pull the rails off of the bed," Cuddy pointed out.

"It hurts," House said. He swallowed thickly, still panting. "You have no idea—" he gasped, feeling it come on again. "You don't—oh, God," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, the parts of his face that weren't red blanching, "I'm gonna be sick."

Cuddy winced in sympathy. They'd bombarded him with drugs and he was still as miserable as he'd been five minutes ago. She gave an order for an anti-emetic and the nurse who wasn't helping him avoid a mess left to get it. She studied the heart monitor again and checked his blood pressure. His vitals were holding steady.

House tugged hard at the restraints as a nurse hastily wiped his chin. His face was pinched and he was breathing hard through his nose. He was doing his best not to scream again, Cuddy could tell.

His eyes snapped open and his eyes met hers: no fear, no panic; only pain. He broke eye contact suddenly, his body tensing. The muscles in his forearms bulged and he did scream now. He ran out of wind and the scream broke off but his mouth was still open and his neck still arched, the blood vessels in his neck and temple pulsating wildly, his face a deep shade of red.

It stopped as suddenly as it had come and he flopped against the mattress, catching his breath, eyes closed in relief.

After a few steady, cleansing breaths, House mumbled: "If you're not going to give me any pain meds, you can at least put me to sleep or break my arm or something." His eyelids fluttered. "Any distraction. I don't care what."

She began to speak. "We—"

"But you're not taking it," House added as sharply as he could, head lolling to the side. "Whatever else you do," he said, swallowing a gulp of air, "you're not taking my leg."

Cuddy's expression, which had been soft, became sterner. "Okay," she said, "we'll try it again, but more slowly this time."

"Fine," House breathed, eyes still closed. "Good. Do it."

The pain amped up beyond all reason again as a nurse titrated the morphine and he gasped, yelped, and screamed, eyes bugging at the ceiling, every muscle he had flexing against the force of it. The wave crested and he went limp again, covered in sweat, shaking, dizzy, mindless. Slowly, the morphine started to take effect, but it was a central nervous system agent, not something local, he knew, and it could only do so much. He would still feel it, but he wouldn't be arching off the gurney screaming his throat raw. The relief was immense but it wasn't enough and while he couldn't manage a scream this time, his body contracted and he panted heavily through the worst of this wave. This had to end. He couldn't take it. He would die if this kept up.

After a series of tense moments that became easier and easier for House to bear, though still far from bearable, the flock of medical personnel began to disperse.

Cuddy smiled down at him. "Looking good," she said. "How are you doing?"

"Better," House breathed. His face was still screwed up with pain and it kept him hitching in unsteady breaths, but he wasn't clawing wildly at his leg any longer. He could hear the heart monitor slowing: he was calming down, settling in to the sensation. It wasn't so bad. He could make it. He could do this.

He opened his eyes and blinked at Cuddy. "How did it go?"

She smiled, relieved that he was coherent and his pain was under control. "Very well—except for this part."

House sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted, and grunted. _I had no idea_, he thought. But, as air filled his lungs, he reflected that he wouldn't have done anything differently. He swallowed and licked his lips, scrunching his nose at the taste of vomit.

Cuddy watched him. He was relaxed—still cringing and gasping occasionally, but doing considerably better. He seemed like himself. She took a deep breath, not wanting to tell him but knowing she had to. Though he knew this already.

"You know it's going to get worse before it gets better," she said gently.

He nodded briefly. "I know." His face contorted and she saw his biceps bulge as he clenched his fists, breathing unsteadily. He relaxed again after a few seconds and coughed. "I'm still going through with it."

"Okay," Cuddy responded. "I want to keep you here for another fifteen or twenty minutes, then you'll go back to the floor. We're going to keep a close eye on you, but since you had a reaction, I can't say at this point how well we'll be able to manage your pain."

"I know," House whispered, beginning to sink under the combined weight of exhaustion, anesthesia, and narcotics. "Do what you've got to do."

She smiled again and then she was gone and he was left staring at the ceiling when his eyes were open and watching the orange of his eyelids turn red and spotty when pain made him squeeze them shut. He concentrated on breathing, staying calm, and not thinking about his leg. It seemed to know when he thought about it and it would shoot pain at him through the morphine. He was so tired. Sleep would be wonderful. He tried to let the drug take over his mind and draw him into sleep, but as soon as he started feeling comfortable enough to drift off, pain would flare up and slice through the calm he'd created.

He didn't know how long he cycled through wakefulness, sleepiness, and pain. He couldn't concentrate hard enough to wonder about the passage of time—nor did he really care. Time was now measured in pain-filled moments and pain-free moments rather than seconds, minutes, and hours. Pain-filled moments felt like hours and days; pain-free moments felt like seconds and minutes. He didn't care about anything except stretching out the pain-free moments. He wasn't even aware that no one had taken the restraints off of his wrists until he felt hands unbuckling the strap on his right wrist.

He opened his eyes and blinked, squinting in the harsh light.

Wilson saw him, but kept his focus on the restraints. "Hey," he said.

House's right arm stayed limp after he freed it. He glanced over at House's face and saw House trying to swallow and lick his lips.

Wilson found one of the ubiquitous cups of ice chips and offered him half a spoonful, which he gratefully accepted.

"Dr. Cuddy said you had a rough time when you woke up."

House closed his eyes, savoring the cool flecks of ice melting on his tongue. A broken grunt that sounded too close to a whimper for comfort emanated from the back of his throat. Realizing his throat was dry and sore despite the ice, he glanced from Wilson to the cup, hoping Wilson would understand without him having to vocalize the request. He was too tired to talk.

Wilson did understand and gave him a full spoonful this time. He asked silently for more but Wilson didn't oblige, going around the bed to free his left arm instead.

"Vitals look good," Wilson said.

House nodded once. "How's Stacy?" he asked, trying to put more into his voice than the whisper that came out.

"Worried. Nervous. Scared." Wilson watched him for a reaction. Normally he protected patients from the fear their loved ones felt, but this was House. He couldn't lie. "She wants to see you when you're ready."

"Going back to the room soon, right?" House rasped. He coughed and begged silently for more ice.

"Another ten minutes," Wilson said, scooping out a small portion which House eagerly accepted.

"Ten minutes?" he asked when he'd swallowed the melted ice. "How long has it been?"

"About five minutes," Wilson replied. "How long did you think it had been?"

"Longer than that," House grumbled, wincing as pain broke through the morphine again.

Wilson noticed. "Bad?"

"No," House said through his teeth.

"You need to let me know if it is," Wilson said.

House let out a shaky breath as the pain receded. "I will," he whispered.

"Okay," Wilson said. "I'm going to let you rest. _Say_ something if you need a booster."

House grunted, eyes closed. "Believe me, I will."

"Hang tight," Wilson said lamely, clapping House's shoulder.

House said nothing this time. Wilson watched him flinch and settle down again before he turned his back quietly and left.


	20. The Long Corridor

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy, House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

Poor House. (You know you love it.)

* * *

**Chapter 19: The Long Corridor **

Outside, Wilson approached Stacy, keeping everything he was feeling at the sight of his friend in such poor condition buried deep in the same temporary boneyard that housed his feelings in the time between shepherding a family through the death of a loved one and the first chance he got to yell at the world. If he had time later today or tomorrow, depending on how House was doing, he'd run these feelings out at the track. Right now, his real self was protected by walls fortified by years of medical practice; he felt nothing that could hurt him.

"Hey," he said softly, stopping in front of her.

She had a case file open on her lap but she was miles away, staring at the wall. She started at the sound of his voice.

"Has Cuddy been out to see you yet?" he asked, taking a seat next to her.

Right now, he told himself, he was her friend first and a doctor second.

Stacy turned to him, anxiety pooling in her eyes. "She said he had a reaction to the morphine…?" She trailed off uncertainly.

Realizing she wasn't holding together as well as he'd thought, Wilson shifted gears slightly. Always a doctor first when he was in the hospital, he knew. If only he could adhere to that imperative.

"A mild one," he answered. "He's fine."

"She said he was in a lot of pain." Stacy's face tensed, not wanting the answer.

Wilson nodded carefully. "He is. But he was much better when I saw him just now."

"Is he still awake?" She asked with a mixture of excitement at the prospect and worry over how he was doing, how he might look, and whether she could handle all of it.

Wilson nodded again. "He was when I left, but he was trying to sleep."

"Can I see him?" This question she asked with certainty. She knew that she did want to see him, even if it was bad. She had to.

Wilson hesitated. "He'll be back in the room soon," he began. "Cuddy wanted to observe him for a little while longer—ten minutes—"

"James," she interrupted. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, aware that those buried feelings didn't want to stay down today, and that he was worrying her needlessly.

He waved a hand. "Nothing," he said, looking at her as honestly as he could. "I just…he looks bad and he was very tired…it might be better to wait."

She studied him. "Dr. Cuddy said he's going to get worse before he starts getting better," she pointed out.

Wilson's hand crept up his neck and began massaging. "That's true," he said.

"No time like the present," she said, but her voice rose at the end and it came out as a question. Wilson was skittish; that made her skittish.

Wilson sighed and let his hand fall. "You're right," he agreed.

"James. What is it?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's not him—he's okay. I've just never seen him like this."

She put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a brief squeeze, and stood up. She approached life more eager to know than not to know. Even if Wilson was shaken up, she had to know for herself how House was. There were no other possibilities.

Wilson followed her lead, getting to his feet, and she gestured for him to show her the way.

They heard retching as they approached the recovery room. Wilson glanced nervously at her. She was cringing: apparently she could tell it was him too.

A nurse was wiping House's chin when they entered. He breathed heavily, each expulsion of air punctuated by a small irrepressible grunt. Wilson recognized the noises: House was just barely in control of his pain. He eyed the nurse, asking her to step away from the patient with him so they could talk.

He put a hand on Stacy's arm. "I'll be back," he said quietly.

She nodded faintly, distracted by House's disheveled appearance. She tried to take his hand and met a stiff board instead. By the time he'd blinked through tears that this round of painfully insistent vomiting had caused, she was on his left side taking his other hand. His nose and eyes were red, and the tears ran down his neck to mix with sweat and a streak of bile the nurse had missed. He sniffled as he inhaled, nose running, and couldn't help the choked sound he was making. She tried not to let any of this get to her—especially when his eyes focused on her.

"Hey," she said, fighting to sound steady.

He swallowed and licked his lips. "Hey," he responded in a cracked whisper.

"Not doing too well," she said, aware of the effort of speaking for him.

He closed his eyes. More tears. Dammit, he wasn't crying. But he couldn't stop them.

"Nope."

Stacy plucked a few tissues from a box near the gurney and began mopping his face. The one thing he hated more than showing emotions when he didn't want to was having evidence of those emotions linger.

Suddenly he hissed and crushed her hand, body tensing and eyes closing, and all she could do was stand there until it passed. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Breaths hitching in and out so sharply that he must not be getting enough air, she thought. She could see that he was already becoming accustomed to this, but also that he was so tired too. It was taking too long—she began to worry that it wouldn't pass, that he'd never open his eyes and breathe calmly again.

Then he relaxed with a small moan, his muscles turning to goo, and the sweaty hand that had been gripping hers for life loosened and fell away. The action reminded her of the way he collapsed into a mushy heap around her after an orgasm. She shuddered, not wanting to associate pleasure and pain like that.

"Sorry," House murmured, swallowing and licking his lips.

She blinked, and realized those investigative eyes were trained on her now, half-lidded, bone-weary, and still pained, but still intent and aware. She looked at him in confusion until she realized she'd been unconsciously flexing her hand. She shook it dismissively, inwardly composing herself so her voice wouldn't waver when she spoke, and shifted her attention back to him.

"Can't they do anything about that?" she asked.

House's face tightened again. Pain.

"They are," he choked.

"It's not working," she said—stating the obvious, he hated that, but she couldn't say anything else.

House squeezed his eyes shut; she noticed the death grip he had on the gurney.

"I know," he gasped.

For a long moment he was tense and still, not breathing. Stacy didn't breathe either. Though he was rigid, she could see tiny tremors rippling under his skin and she understood how hard the fight was.

After a while, twin tears ran down his face and a breath of relief shivered in and out of his parched lips. Stacy released the metal rail, palms cheering her. She wiped his face again while he focused on breathing, and didn't realize she was crying too until a tear splashed the back of her hand.

"This is what it's going to be like?" she said, half stating the fact with accusation and a defeated 'I told you so' in her voice, and half asking, imploring someone or something to make it different, to stop his suffering. Imploring him—not to change his mind about amputation, but because he was always right and he should be right about this: he should be able to handle it better than this. He should know some way to make the pain lessen. He had to know some way. If he didn't, no one else would.

She was aware now that her face was wet—probably as bad as his was—and she berated herself for not being stronger. He didn't need someone crying over him. He hated that.

His body guarded, anticipating the next spasm, House replied in a harsh, forced breath, "I can do it."

She blinked at him through tears, wanting to curse and shout and deride him for being so stupid when clearly he couldn't do this, he wasn't handling it, and Cuddy said it was going to get worse before it got better. Worse than this? But instinctively she knew that it could get much worse. That it would get much worse.

She saw him tensing again and knew it was coming back. She couldn't yell now. So she just held his hand tighter and let him squeeze it until it was numb, wishing she could do more to help him.

He was even more exhausted when this wave of pain passed. She didn't believe what she said next—it was such a line from a medical drama on television and she knew he probably wouldn't be able to relax any more when she left because she wasn't causing the problem, but she could think of nothing else to say: "I'll let you get some rest."

He nodded quickly, eyes closed, lips tight. She wiped his face again and lingered to brush his hair once. She tried to sound hopeful and cheerful when she spoke.

"See you in the room."

He nodded again, very quickly, and didn't open his eyes or say anything. She saw that he was guarding himself against another wave.

With one last brush of her fingers across his hand, she left the recovery room shell-shocked and aimless.

She was vaguely aware that she wanted to talk to Wilson or Cuddy: someone who'd seen what she had just seen and could tell her more about how long it would last and how much they could do to make it better. Though she knew the answers to these questions already, seeing him shaking with pain and pale-white on a gurney changed everything. She wasn't prepared for this. She didn't doubt that she could handle it, that she could see it through with him, but she hadn't been totally prepared to see him in that much pain. She needed to regroup, to reassess the case. She needed to know if it was possible to bargain with this pain, to reach some kind of agreement that would spare him the agony of it.

Not entirely cognizant of her surroundings, she wandered out of the post-op area and ended up on a bench. Suddenly Wilson was sitting next to her, offering her some water. On some level, she knew that he had been waiting for her to come out and she appreciated him so much, but she couldn't articulate that right now beyond a polite 'Thanks' when she took the proffered cup.

Wilson, on the other hand, had seen a spouse's first reaction to the intensity of a patient's pain too often. He knew it was best to start talking in a low, caring voice. Knowing Stacy, he also knew that she wanted to know everything.

"I know he looks bad," Wilson began. "He is. I've seen his chart—Dr. Cuddy is doing everything she can to help him through this. If he continues to have trouble tolerating morphine, or if it doesn't help him like it should, there are other drugs we can try. And we will try them."

He stopped. She took the cue and looked up at him.

His face softened. "But there is a chance that no matter how many drugs or drug combinations we try, even if we give him as much as he can physically tolerate—that we may not be able to control his pain. I don't know how much of a chance that is yet—we have to wait and see how he handles any increases in morphine before we consider changing drugs—we should know in the next few hours—but what he's going through is one of the most painful experiences anyone can have—it's why most doctors prefer amputation—but I know he wants to do it and he thinks he can, and he's usually right when he thinks he can do something. He knows it's not going to be easy."

Stacy scrutinized him through red eyes. "He knew it would be this bad?"

Wilson hesitated. "He knew it would be very bad. I don't know if he knew it would be this bad. But he probably did."

She nodded. "He said he could do it," she said, motioning slightly toward the recovery room.

Wilson understood. "He may be able to," he acknowledged. "But it may not be his choice in the end."

She sniffled once and put on a smile that announced that though she thought House was being too stubborn for his own good, she would be there and she was grateful to him for being there too.

"Thank you," she said simply.

Wilson acknowledged her thanks with a small nod. He got that a lot.

They sat quietly together until Cuddy came out and updated them on House's condition. He was doing better pain-wise. His post-op labs would be back soon (this more to Wilson). He was ready to go to the room. They both nodded.

Stacy went to wait to accompany House to the room. Wilson followed Cuddy to get the labs.

En route, both realized that the day hadn't officially begun yet: it wasn't even eight a.m. The day yawned in front of them like an interminable white corridor lit by unyielding florescent lights. And as hard as it was for them to keep walking, they knew it was so much more difficult for House. So they kept walking. There was nothing else to do.


	21. Progression

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy, House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

This one is for everyone who kept asking for more. Unfortunately, I can't promise that it won't be a very long time before the next chapter comes along.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Progression**

He screamed at the ceiling, even though screaming made Stacy's lip quiver, because he couldn't not scream anymore.

The scream died but his mouth remained open, eyes bulging at the fluorescent tube blurred with ceiling tile, like a dead fish. A whimper. A gasp. All involuntary. He'd be pissing all over himself if that wasn't already taken care of.

The pain retreated like a boxer to his corner. He could breathe again and be aware again of his surroundings and all the secondary pain that lurked to make him feel like shit when the real pain slacked.

Four hours. Maybe. He recalled now that Stacy had said something about noon approaching. He was fairly sure he'd made it to three hours without screaming. Anesthesia. He'd slept between spikes of pain. A few minutes at a time. Pain woke him, he tried to tense against it, pain left him, and he slept until it came back. He longed to return to that anesthetized state.

The opaque Stacy who'd hovered around him during those few hours, swabbing a combination of sweat, tears, spit, and snot from his face, blended with the nurses who were in and out to check his vitals and some combination of doctors who reported his downward spiral to him in the form of labs. He knew he'd never been alone and as much as his father had instilled in his subconscious that showing pain made him weak and inferior, he was grateful for her presence. He didn't want to be grateful, but he couldn't help that any more than he could help screaming at this point.

Now his tired eyes shifted to her of their own accord. Still there. He couldn't focus well enough to really take her in, but he could imagine how she'd look. Tired also, mascara running, how she hated that, and she was so beautiful that he—

Pain sprang from its corner without warning, snarling, bearing sharp teeth, and the world washed away.

He didn't know how long he screamed. He didn't know he was screaming. Just that when the pain ebbed his throat hurt again and his muscles hurt again. His head. His left hand where he'd dug crescent-shaped lines into his palm at some point. Now he gripped the mattress with that hand. His right hand tensed against the board taped to it to keep various tubes in place, curling ineffectively. Sweat. Heat. Fever from his overtaxed kidneys. So tired. But still enough energy to contract every muscle and scream.

Insistently, someone demanded to know, "How much does it hurt?"

He opened his mouth to say "ten" but a scream came out instead.

And then he felt himself sinking and he knew they'd given him more morphine. He gasped first, then shuddered, then relaxed. Time moved in and out like the sea.

A cool, wet sensation on his forehead. Stacy. He could remember.

Then he could open his eyes and see again.

Swallowing, he whispered "thank you." He didn't know who he was thanking.

Pain swept up again, but in his cottoned cocoon he felt it indistinctly. When it was gone, he relaxed completely, each atom uncoiling like the moments after good sex.

He turned his eyes up. Stacy floated above him. He felt so many things he couldn't say to her because the words didn't exist. He smiled instead. That would have to do. He'd try to tell her when this was over.

He felt better for a good period of time. Resting. Half-asleep with fever, fatigue, and the extra morphine. Pain that only made him gasp and shake. Then intervals of rest.

After a while, he came to himself suddenly, whooshing up from somewhere dark and distant. A light in his eye; something kept him from closing it. Realization brick-walled like a deep breath after drowning and he recognized Cuddy behind the flash of light and two more figures behind her.

"Doctor House, are you back with us?"

He matched the words to Cuddy and tried to say "yes."

Something other than "yes" came out, but Cuddy replied, "Good," and put the light away.

House blinked slowly, passing-out-drunk on chemicals. "Blood pressure again," he croaked.

"Yes," Cuddy answered, her eyes darting to him from the monitors next to the bed. "Your tolerance for morphine is decreasing."

House ran a quick self check, forcing himself to do it against the terror that pain would return if he thought about it, blinked once, then looked back at Cuddy.

"I feel okay," he mumbled, hearing the passing-out-drunk tone in his voice. "What'd you give me?"

"Diazepam."

His face furrowed. "That doesn't make—"

Pain seizing him by the throat like a lion. Hiss. Ahh. Breath. Calm.

Surprising but not bad this time. Eyes open again. People watching him. Knowing like he did it would turn bad again soon.

"IgE?" House mumbled, hoping Cuddy would understand. Because speaking…

His body like a weight. Like cement-encased feet dragging him under heavy water. Ache. Soreness. His kidneys choking with waste. Blink. Breath. Living.

"…a sample going to the lab right now," Cuddy's voice said.

House realized he had missed part of the conversation. Concentration…he couldn't…

"…fentanyl?"

"Never had it," he mumbled.

If Cuddy wanted to know that. Whatever combination of opiods and benzodiazepines cruised through his system now, he didn't register pain with such sharp intensity and his body longed to switch off.

Above him, Cuddy smiled at Stacy and indicated that they talk elsewhere. She gave instructions in a low tone to a nurse who remained behind to monitor the patient's vitals.

Just outside the room, Stacy stopped and pressed a tired hand to her cheek. "I can't believe he's sleeping," she said.

Though she knew better, Cuddy smiled.

Not for a moment did Stacy believe the expression. "It's not over," she sighed.

"Probably not," Cuddy said, gripping House's file between both sets of fingers and thumbs. After allowing Stacy a moment, she assumed the stance of a knowledgeable, distanced doctor. "We're going to change his medication," she said, "and test to see if he's really allergic to morphine." She gestured with the file, passing it from hand to hand in a display of unconscious nervousness. "He says he isn't allergic to it—and it's possible to have what's known as a pseudo allergy—but his blood pressure drops every time we give it to him…even if he doesn't have a real allergy, these blood pressure drops are not safe."

Stacy's eyebrow crept lower and lower until Cuddy thought it might merge with her nose.

Cuddy smiled. "The good news is, the same thing probably won't happen with the new medicine."

Stacy's hand migrated to her chin. "Is it effective?"

Cuddy smiled again. "More effective, for some people." House's file shifted in her hands again. "It's a matter of finding something that will work for him."

Stacy let out a cloud of air, looking from Cuddy to House and back. "Okay," she said.

The file shifted. Cuddy smiled. "We'll have the test results soon." The filed shifted back. "A nurse will be in to change the medicine, too."

Stacy blinked heavily, wishing she could do something more to help. More? Anything.

"Thank you," she said, and stepped aside to indicate she had no more questions.

Cuddy smiled one last time and clicked down the hall.

Quietly, Stacy returned to the chair next to House's bed. The nurse monitoring him offered her a brief smile which Stacy returned out of habit. She breathed deeply once, twice, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, clasping her hands together as if to pray.


	22. Where's Wilson?

**Title:** Of a Thursday  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy, House/Wilson strong friendship  
**Spoilers:** Season One  
**Summary:** House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

This one is filler of a sort, but important filler.

* * *

**Chapter 21:****Where's Wilson?**

Like a ghost, Wilson's reflection appeared in the room's window sometime in the early afternoon. Seeing him, Stacy took a long look at Greg and quietly left the room.

Standing on the other side of the glass, neither spoke for a moment. Then, as if they shared a brain, both moved across the hall to an alcove with vacant chairs.

Stacy's attention remained on House. Seeing this, Wilson slid his Kind, Caring Doctor mask into place and changed his opening remark, accustomed to putting himself last.

"How is he?" Wilson asked.

The question broke Stacy's concentration. She gave him an apologetic smile and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Better," she said half-seriously. "He's not puking any more. That's a relief."

Wilson returned her sardonic smile, rubbing his hands together. "Fentanyl can be rough at first. But it works."

Stacy nodded, serious now, eyes roving from Wilson to the floor to the small table separating them. "He's not screaming any more, either," she added softly.

Wilson looked at the table, too. Cuddy had mentioned the bad morning House had experience and Wilson had asked that the lab CC every report to him. The decline in renal function was frightening. Now that he'd seen House—restless, half-delirious, half-sedated—he knew that the dialysis Cuddy had just ordered was the only thing that would keep House alive unless he changed his mind about debridement. He wished he could speak to House, but…

Wilson pulled himself back to the present. Stacy was subdued, revisiting the earlier horrors.

"How are you doing?" Wilson ventured.

Stacy shook her head, looking away, and Wilson saw her begin to break.

"I feel so helpless," she said in the same choked voice he heard almost every day he visited a patient's loved ones.

Wilson reached across the table to take her hand. "You're doing all you can do," he said.

Stacy swallowed her emotions and looked up at him. "You do this all the time," she said, hating the weight burning behind her eyes. She smiled crookedly. "Got any tips?"

Wilson shook his head slowly. "I don't know how to make it any easier," he said. "I'm usually not…"

He stared hard at the floor, took a deep breath, and looked back up at her.

"My mother had a heart attack," he began, swallowing against his own emotions. "About an hour ago."

He felt Stacy squeeze his hand and stand up, but he kept his eyes on the floor just as she had done earlier. Other than his department head, with whom he wasn't very close, he hadn't told anyone yet. It was surprisingly difficult to talk about, he was finding.

"She's—ah—she'll probably be fine." He felt himself starting to shake now that her other hand was on his shoulder. "The time—my dad was there—he thinks they caught it in time." The hand squeezed his shoulder. "I don't know—I'm waiting for them to call me back." He took a deep breath and fought the shaking. "But—I have to go. Now." He gestured meaninglessly. "In an hour. My flight's in an hour." Quickly, he glanced up at Stacy, then back to the floor.

"James, I'm so sorry," Stacy said, squeezing his shoulder again, offering him a hug made awkward by the chair he still sat in.

He stood up and hugged her as tightly as she was hugging him, so grateful to have someone who cared about him to tell his awful news. He had Julie, yes, but she hadn't known him as long as Stacy had. She didn't know House, either. She wouldn't understand how hard it was for him to go to his mother.

He blinked heavily as they parted, her hand still on his arm. "Thanks," he said, rubbing an anxious hand across his neck.

He looked past her to the glass wall and the unmoving figure obscured by bed rails and a chair.

"I don't want to leave," he began, "but…"

Stacy tried to smile. "I know," she said.

He glanced at her again, smiled reflexively, and dropped his eyes back to the floor. "Ah—I've seen everything—all of the labs—and Dr. Cuddy is doing everything right." His hand fell from his neck and he met her eyes now. "I have every confidence in her."

Eyes glistening, Stacy nodded briefly in response.

"You have my cell and page numbers?"

Again, Stacy nodded, struck by Wilson's concern for Greg.

"If not, they're on file," he said, aware that he was rambling but not able to stop himself. "Cuddy should have them, and my department head. I'll keep in touch, and, ah, let me know if…anything changes."

Now it was easy to stop. He'd seen House's labs. He knew much better than Stacy that House might not make it through the night. He wanted very badly to speak to House before he left. To say something banal and reassuring that House would mock. But he couldn't interrupt this little bit of rest House was finally getting. So his hand clamped on to the back of his neck again and he shifted his weight.

"I'll call you as soon as I can," he said lamely.

Stacy squeezed his hand again. "Thank you so much, James."

Though he saw the sincerity in her expression in other faces almost every day, he had to force himself to breathe deeply again, to gather himself and what he wanted to say. When he could meet her eyes again, he forced a smile.

"Tell him he owes me a round of golf when this is all over."

Stacy smiled with wet eyes and wished him and his family well, and then he was glancing again, maybe for the last time, into House's room—quiet, still; House wasn't awake yet—and then he was down the hall and in the elevator. The doors closed cutting the floor off.

Stacy watched him disappear down the hall, noticing the long look he gave the room as he passed. She felt sick for him. Angry at the horrible timing.

Slowly, she returned to Greg's room, sat next to him, and took his hand. James thought he was going to die. She saw him try to conceal the fact, but he was an awful liar. James thought Greg was going to die.

Tears. Again. She hated herself for crying.

Greg's hand was warm in hers—too warm. James, the only person Greg seemed to like and the only doctor he seemed to have any respect for, thought he was going to die.

Looking down at him, she couldn't avoid thinking the same thing. The only person she'd ever seen as sick as he was had been her grandmother at the very end of her life, just before cancer killed her.

But Greg didn't have to die. He could still be right—he was always right, always insufferably right, why not this time too?—and there was still time to fix him. It was just a leg. Just a leg. He'd be different, but she wouldn't love him any less. Not over something as petty as a leg.

She sat alone for several minutes before a nurse arrived to check his vital signs. Every fifteen minutes. She understood time in fifteen-minute increments now.

Then she was alone again, Greg still semiconscious, his eyes rolling furiously, fingers, toes, shoulders twitching at random. Cuddy and Greg's colleague from nephrology—she couldn't remember which one—told her he was scheduled for dialysis in an hour. That had been almost an hour ago. For the umpteenth time, she realized that she wasn't any good at waiting.

A soft gasp made her look up. Sleepy blue eyes peered back at her.

"You're still here," he mumbled.

She smiled. "Where else would I be?"

"Not here," he answered. "This place sucks."

He gasped, shutting his eyes and moaning softly, but she'd seen a spark behind the fatigue and the fever and the pain in his eyes. She felt wonderful. Lifted up. He was still alive. Still okay.

His thumb rubbed her hand and she realized she'd been looking through him rather than at him.

"Hey," he said, having gotten her attention again. "See any ice chips around? My mouth's a desert."

She found a cup and gave him what hadn't melted, telling him about James' mother between his hisses of pain.

"Sure he didn't fake it to get away?" Greg asked, licking his dry lips with a pleasantly cold and wet tongue.

Stacy gave him _that look_.

"It's what I would have—" Pain caught him mid-sentence. Another surprised gasp. His eyes shut again.

Even with fentanyl, which he had to admit made a difference, he couldn't escape the near-constant burning in his flesh. No more ebbs and flows. It was getting worse, leaving him with less time for respite.

When he opened his eyes, the worried expression Stacy wore almost constantly now greeted him and she asked him again how he felt and mentioned again that it could all be fixed so easily.

He closed his eyes, tired of listening.

Stacy watched him slip back into semi-consciousness. She held his hand tighter.


End file.
